“That’s enough of your sarcasm.”
“Sarcasm, senhora?”
“Yesterday, my aunt and I took tea alone. Alone!”
“Ah!”
“I was counting on you to come and spend a boring hour or so with us.”
“Boring? Let me explain what happened. It was all Ernesto’s fault.”
“Was it?”
“It’s true. He met me in the house of some mutual friends, there were four of us in all, the talk turned to ombre, and we ended up having a game or two. We were there all night. And, as always happens, I won!”
“Did you, now?”
“And they were no mere novices, either, but real masters of the game, especially one of them. Up until eleven o’clock it seemed that fortune was refusing to smile on me, but after that, things turned in my favor, and I began to dazzle. And, believe me, they were dazzled. I have a certificate to prove it, but, what’s this, are you crying?”
Emília did indeed have a handkerchief pressed to her eyes. Was she crying? It’s true that when she removed the handkerchief, her eyes were moist. She turned away from the light and said:
“Of course not . . . do go on.”
“There’s nothing more to tell,” said Tito.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself . . .”
“Somewhat . . .”
“But letters are meant to be answered. Why did you not respond to mine?” said Emília.
“Your what?”
“The letter I wrote asking you to come and take tea with us.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Or if I did receive that letter, it was at a moment when I didn’t have time to read it, and then I must have forgotten and left it somewhere . . .”
“That’s quite possible, but it’s the last time . . .”
“Do you mean you’re never going to invite me to tea again?”
“Yes, that’s precisely what I mean. You risk missing out on something better.”
“Not at all. You’re a charming hostess and I always enjoy coming to your house. I mean it. So you took tea alone? What about Diogo?”
“I got rid of him. Do you imagine he would make for amusing company?”
“Apparently. He’s a polite enough fellow, somewhat temperamental, it’s true, but since that is a common fault, I hardly feel I can criticize him for that.”
“Diogo has been avenged.”
“For what, senhora?”
Emília looked hard at Tito and said:
“Oh, nothing.”
Then, standing up, she went over to the piano.
“I’m going to play something,” she said. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
Emília began to play, but the music was so sad that it made Tito feel rather melancholy too. After a time, he interrupted her with these words:
“That’s dreadfully sad music!”
“I’m translating my own soul,” said the widow.
“Are you sad, then?”
“What do you care about my sadnesses?”
“No, you’re right, I don’t care about them in the least. But it’s nothing I’ve done, is it?”
Emília got up and went over to him.
“Do you think I can forgive you for snubbing me?”
“What do you mean, ‘snubbing’ you?”
“By not accepting my invitation.”
“But I’ve already explained—”
“Enough! I’m sorry, too, that Adelaide’s husband was involved in that game.”
“He left at ten o’clock, and someone else took his place, not a bad player, as it happens.”
“Poor Adelaide!”
“But, as I said, he left at ten o’clock.”
“He should never have gone in the first place. He should belong entirely to his wife. I know I’m speaking to an unbeliever, but you cannot imagine the sheer bliss of a dutiful domestic life. Two creatures living solely for each other as one person; thinking, breathing, dreaming the same things; finding their horizon in the other’s eyes, with no greater ambition, not wanting anything more. Do you know what that is?”
“I do . . . it’s marriage viewed from the outside.”
“I know someone who could prove that it exists.”
“Really? And who is this rare creature?”
“If I tell you, you’ll just make fun, so I won’t.”
“Me? Make fun? No, tell me. I’m curious.”
“Don’t you believe there could be someone who loves you?”
“It’s possible . . .”
“Don’t you believe that someone, despite your idiosyncratic nature, could genuinely love you, with a love utterly different from the ordinary love one finds in salons; a love capable of self-sacrifice, of everything? You don’t, do you?”
“Yes, I do, but—”
“Well, that person and that love both exist.”
“Then there are two of those rare creatures.”
“Don’t mock. They do exist, you just have to look for them.”
“Ah, that would be difficult. You see, I don’t have the time. And even if I were to find them, what would be the point? They wouldn’t do me any good anyway. That kind of thing is for other men, Diogo, for example . . .”
“Diogo?”
The lovely widow seemed gripped by anger for a moment. Then, after a silence, she said:
“Goodbye. I’m sorry, but I feel unwell.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then!”
And with that, Tito shook Emília’s hand and left as blithely and gaily as if he were leaving a birthday party.
Once she was alone, Emília fell into a chair and covered her face with her hands.
She had been sitting like this for about five minutes, when old Diogo reappeared at the door.
“Oh, you’re still here?”
“Yes, senhora,” said Diogo, approaching. “Unhappily, I am.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t leave, you see. Some hidden demon urged me to commit an infamous act, and I did, but at least I learned something to my advantage: I’m safe now, for I know that you don’t love me.”
“You heard, then?”
“Everything. And I understood.”
“What did you understand, my friend?”
“That you love Tito.”
“Ah!”
“I will withdraw, then, but I didn’t wish to do so without you knowing that I leave in the knowledge that I am not loved, and before you actually dismiss me.”
Emília remained utterly calm as she listened to these words, and while he was speaking, she had time to think about what she should say.
Diogo was about to make his final bow, when the widow addressed him:
“Listen, Senhor Diogo. You heard correctly, but you interpreted what you heard quite wrongly. Because what you think you know—”
“I know, you’re going to tell me that it’s all part of a trick you’re playing on that young man . . .”
“How do you know?”
“Dona Adelaide told me.”
“And it’s true.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“Because there were tears in your voice. Your words pierced my heart. If you knew how I suffered!”
The lovely widow could not help but smile at the comically tragic look on Diogo’s face. Then, when he seemed plunged in somber thoughts, she said:
“You’re quite wrong; in fact, I intend to return to Rio.”
“Is that true?”
“Do you really think a man like him could arouse any serious feelings? Never!”
These words were spoken in the tone she usually used to persuade her eternal inamorato. That and another smile were enough to reassure Diogo. A few minutes later, he was positively beaming.
“And to convince you once and for all, I’m going to write a note to Tito . . .”
“I’ll deliver it myself,” said D
iogo, quite wild with contentment.
“Why not!”
“Until tomorrow, then. Sweet dreams, and forgive me if I’ve behaved badly. Goodbye.”
He gallantly kissed Emília’s hand and left.
IV
The following day, at noon, Diogo went to see Tito and, after talking about various other matters, he took from his pocket a letter, which he pretended to have forgotten about until then, and to which he appeared to give no great importance.
“What a bombshell!” he said to himself as Tito tore open the envelope.
Here is what the letter said:
I gave you my heart, but you did not want it and even scorned it. You so trampled it underfoot that it has stopped beating. It’s dead. I’m not blaming you, for one should not speak of light to the blind. It was entirely my fault. I thought I could bring you happiness and receive equal happiness in return. I was wrong.
You have the honor of withdrawing from the field wearing the laurels of victory. I remain here wounded and defeated. Never mind! Feel free to mock me, I won’t deny you that right.
Meanwhile, I must tell you that I recognized you; I never said anything, but I recognized you at once. That first day when I saw you at Adelaide’s house, I realized you were the same man who once came to me and threw himself at my feet . . . You were mocking me then, as you did today. I should have known that. I have paid dearly for my mistake. Goodbye, goodbye forever.
Tito glanced repeatedly at Diogo while he was reading this letter. Why had he agreed to deliver the note? Was it genuine or a forgery? As well as being unsigned, there had been a clear attempt to disguise the writing. Could it be another of the old man’s ploys to get rid of him? If so, he must have known what had happened on the previous evening.
Tito reread the letter many times, and when he parted from Diogo, he said that his response would soon follow.
Diogo left, rubbing his hands with glee.
The letter read by you, the readers, along with our hero was not the same letter Emília had read to Diogo. In that draft note, she had declared simply that she was leaving for Rio, adding that among the memories she would carry away with her from Petrópolis would be that of Tito, and the impression he had made on her. However, with supremely feminine dexterity, that draft note was not, as you will have seen, the one Emília sent to Tito.
Tito responded to Emília’s letter in the following terms:
Madam,
I have read and reread your letter, and I will not conceal from you the sadness it awoke in me. Is that really the true state of your heart? Are you really so in love with me?
You say I trampled on your heart. The thought saddens me, although I cannot confirm that it’s true. I cannot remember ever having inflicted such damage, but then you say that I did, and I must believe you.
Reading this letter, you will be thinking that I am the most impudent gentleman ever to have trodden Brazil’s fair soil. You would be mistaken. This is not impudence on my part, but frankness. I regret that it should have come to this, but I can only tell you the truth.
I must confess that I cannot even be sure that the letter I am responding to was from you. Your writing, of which I saw an example in Dona Adelaide’s scrapbook, is nothing like the writing in the letter, which is clearly in a disguised hand; it could be from anyone. Besides, there is no signature.
I mention this because an initial doubt was sown in me by the person chosen to deliver the letter. Could you really find no one better for the task than Diogo? I must say that was truly the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.
But I shouldn’t laugh. You opened your heart to me in a way that inspires compassion not laughter, and that compassion is in no way disrespectful to you, because it lacks all irony. It is pure and sincere. I am sorry I cannot give you the happiness you ask me for, but that is how it is.
I should stop now, and yet I find it hard to raise my pen from the paper. Few men will ever find themselves in the position of being the pursued, not the pursuer. But I must and will finish here, sending you my deepest regrets and praying to God that you find a heart less cold than mine.
My writing is disguised as was yours, and, as in your letter, I leave the signature blank.
This letter was delivered to the widow that same afternoon. Azevedo and Adelaide went to visit her that evening, but could not dissuade her from leaving for Rio. Emília was even rather cold toward Adelaide, who, unable to understand the reason for such coolness, left feeling somewhat sad.
The following day, Emília and her aunt packed their bags and left for Rio.
Diogo stayed on in Petrópolis, taking his time over packing his own cases, because, he said, he did not want to be seen departing at the same time as those two good ladies and for unseemly thoughts about him and Emília to circulate.
Adelaide was completely bemused by all of this, for, as I said, she felt sure that both Emília’s coldness and her insistence on leaving Petrópolis concealed some incomprehensible secret. Was she hoping by her departure to draw Tito after her? If so, she was quite mistaken, because Tito did exactly as he did every day, waking late and eating his breakfast in the best of spirits.
“I suppose you know,” Adelaide said to him, “that our friend Emília will have left for Rio by now?”
“So I heard.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
“Ah, that I do not know. They are the lofty secrets of a woman’s mind! Why does the breeze blow from this direction one day and not from over there? I really don’t care, frankly.”
When Tito had finished his breakfast, he did, as usual, retire to his room to read for a couple of hours.
Adelaide was just about to issue some instructions to the servants when she was astonished to see Emília enter the house, accompanied by her maid.
“So you didn’t go, after all?” said Adelaide, rushing over to embrace her.
“As you see.”
At a gesture from Emília, the servant left the room.
“What happened?” Adelaide asked, seeing her friend’s strangely agitated state.
“What happened?” Emília repeated. “The unforeseeable. You’re like a sister to me, Adelaide, so I can speak frankly. No one can hear us, can they?”
“No, Ernesto is out and Tito is up in his room. But whatever’s wrong?”
“Adelaide,” said Emília, her eyes brimming with tears, “I love him!”
“What?”
“As I said, I am utterly, deeply, madly in love with him. I have tried my best to suppress my feelings, but I can’t; and when, out of blind prejudice, I tried to hide my love from him, I couldn’t, the words just spilled forth . . .”
“But how did it happen?”
“It’s as if it were a punishment; I got well and truly burned on the fire I myself started. These feelings didn’t just begin today. Something began stirring within me when I saw how steadfastly scornful he remained; at first I felt rather vexed, then I was filled with a desire to triumph, then by an ambition to give way on everything, on condition that I won everything too. In short, I lost all self-control. I was the one madly in love with him and this became abundantly clear in my words, my gestures, everything. And the more indifferent he became, the more my love for him increased.”
“Are you serious?”
“You have only to look at me.”
“Who would have thought it?”
“It seems impossible to me, too, but it’s true.”
“And what about him?”
“Oh, he just muttered something noncommittal and left.”
“Will he hold out, do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“If I’d had even a suspicion this would happen, I would never have suggested that ill-fated plan of ours.”
“No, you don’t understand. Do you think I regret feeling as I do? No! I feel happy, I feel proud. It’s one of those loves that bursts forth and fills one’s soul with satisfaction. I should bless you.”
“So it’s
true love, then. Will he never be converted?”
“I don’t know, but regardless of whether he will or not, I’m not asking for his conversion, just for a little less indifference and a little more understanding.”
“So what are you going to do?” asked Adelaide, feeling her eyes filling with tears too.
There was a moment’s silence.
“What you don’t know,” Emília went on, “is that he is not a complete stranger to me. I met him before I married for the first time. He was the man who asked for my hand in marriage before Rafael . . .”
“Ah!”
“Did you know about that?”
“He did tell us that story, but never mentioned the lady in question. So that was you.”
“It was. We both recognized each other, but said nothing.”
“Why?”
The answer to this question was provided by Tito, who suddenly came in through the inner door. He had happened to be looking out of the window when Emília arrived and had crept downstairs in order to eavesdrop on her conversation with Adelaide. His surprise at her unexpected return must excuse such indiscretion.
“Why, you ask?” he said. “I will tell you.”
“But first of all,” said Adelaide, “are you aware that such complete indifference on your part could prove fatal to someone who is not so indifferent to you?”
“You are referring to your friend here, are you?” asked Tito. “Well, I can resolve everything with a simple question.”
And, turning to Emília, he held out his hand to her and said:
“Will you accept my hand in marriage?”
Emília gave a yelp of utter joy, but then some remnant of pride, perhaps, or some other feeling, converted that joy into a single word, which she uttered with her voice breaking:
“Yes!” she said.
Tito lovingly kissed her hand, then added:
“But I should temper my generosity; I should say, rather, that I accept your hand. Should I or should I not? I’m a touch eccentric and always enjoy turning everything on its head.”
“Of course; I’m happy either way. And yet I’m filled with a great sense of remorse. Am I giving you as complete a happiness as the happiness I receive from you?”
The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis Page 21
