V
This delirium lasted for several days. He did get better, though, thanks to the care he received, and appeared to have been restored to health; only the doctor was unconvinced and wanted to continue with the treatment. Brother Simão, however, insisted on going back to the monastery, and no amount of reasoning could stop him.
The reader will assume, quite rightly, that Helena had been forced into marriage by her aunt and uncle.
The shock of seeing Simão again was too much for the poor woman, and she died two months later, to the inconsolable grief of her husband, who genuinely loved her.
On his return to the monastery, Brother Simão grew still more solitary and more taciturn, and remained slightly unhinged.
We already know what happened at his death and the impression this made on the abbot.
For a long period, Brother Simão’s cell was kept shut. It was only opened again some time later in order to receive an old lay brother who, on payment of money, had persuaded the abbot to let him end his days among those doctors of the soul. The man was Simão’s father, the mother having already died.
During the old man’s final years, it was generally believed that he was no less crazy than Brother Simão de Santa Águeda.
Author’s Preface
Gathered together here are a few stories, quickly jotted down, with the sole intention of not taking up too much of the reader’s precious time. By this I do not mean that these tales merit less attention, nor that they lack insight and style. I mean only that these pages, compiled by a kindly publisher, are the most unambitious stories in the world.
I take this opportunity to thank the critics and the public for the generous welcome they gave my first novel, born some time ago now. Work of other kinds has so far prevented me from finishing another, but one will appear in due course.
November 10, 1873
M.A.
THE BLUE FLOWER
Chapter I
RETURN TO BRAZIL
ABOUT SIXTEEN YEARS AGO, Senhor Camilo Seabra disembarked in Rio de Janeiro on his return from Europe. Born in the province of Goiás, he had gone to Europe to study medicine and was returning with his degree in his pocket and a deep sense of longing in his heart. He had been away for eight years, and had seen and admired all the major things that a man can see and admire over there, always assuming he lacks neither taste nor means. He lacked for neither, and if he had possessed, I won’t say a lot, but at least a little more common sense, he would have enjoyed the experience far more than he did, and could then, with some justification, have said that he had truly lived.
As he crossed the bar into Brazil’s capital city, his face betrayed little patriotic feeling. He looked withdrawn and melancholy, like someone holding back an emotion that was not exactly one of earthly bliss. He cast a jaundiced eye over the city gradually unfolding before him as the ship approached its anchorage. When the moment came to disembark, he did so about as blithely as would a prisoner when entering the prison gates. As the skiff moved away from the ship, on whose mast fluttered the French tricolor, Camilo murmured:
“Farewell, France!”
Then he wrapped himself in a magnificent silence and allowed himself to be rowed ashore.
After such a long absence, the sight of the city did manage to hold his attention a little. However, unlike Ulysses, his soul did not thrill to see his homeland again, but was filled, rather, with dullness and tedium. He was comparing what lay before him with what he had seen during those long years away, and his heart was gripped by an all-pervading sense of loss. He found the nearest convenient hotel and decided to stay for a few days before continuing his journey to Goiás. He dined in sad solitude, his mind full of a thousand recollections of the world he had just left, and, after dinner, in order to give his memory free rein, he lay down on the sofa in his room and began to count off, like beads on a rosary, the many cruel misfortunes that had befallen him.
In his opinion, no mortal had ever been so sorely abused by a hostile fate. The whole of Christian martyrology, all the Greek tragedies, and the Book of Job paled into insignificance beside his own misfortunes.
Let us review some of the cruel facts of our hero’s life.
He had been born rich, the son of Comendador Seabra, a landowner in Goiás, who had never himself left his native province. In 1828, a French naturalist had visited Goiás, and become such firm friends with the comendador that the latter chose him and him alone as godfather to his only son, who, at the time, was just one year old. The naturalist, long before he became a naturalist, had committed a few venal poetic sins that had garnered him a certain amount of praise in 1810, but time—the old rag-and-bone man of eternity—had carried them off to the infinite dumping ground of all worthless things. The ex-poet forgave time everything except the consignment to oblivion of a poem in which he had celebrated in verse the life of the Roman soldier and statesman Marcus Furius Camillus, a poem he still read with genuine enthusiasm. As a souvenir of that youthful work, he named his godson Camilo, and, to the great delight of family and friends, Father Maciel baptized him with that name.
“My friend,” said Comendador Seabra to the naturalist, “if my boy reaches maturity, I will send him to your country to study medicine or some other subject that will make a man of him. If, like you, my friend, he should reveal a talent for the study of plants or minerals, then don’t hesitate to let him follow whichever profession you think best suits him, just as if you were his father, which, spiritually speaking, you are.”
“Who knows if I will still be alive then?” said the naturalist.
“Of course you will!” cried Seabra. “That body of yours doesn’t lie. You possess an iron constitution. Why, I’ve seen you out and about in fields and forests, day after day, come rain or shine, and never even suffer so much as a slight headache. If I did half as much as you, I’d have been dead long ago. You must live and take care of my boy, as soon as he’s finished his studies here.”
Seabra kept his promise to the letter. Camilo left for Paris as soon as he had completed his preparatory exams, and there his godfather looked after him as if he really were his father. The comendador made sure his son lacked for nothing, for the monthly allowance he sent him would have been enough for two or three people in his position. As well as the allowance, he received traditional Easter and Christmas gifts from his mother, which reached him in the welcome form of a few thousand francs.
So far the only black cloud in Camilo’s existence was his godfather, who kept an all-too-keen eye on him, fearful that the boy might topple over the edge of one of the many precipices that await the unwary in any large city. Fate, however, decided that the ex-poet of 1810 should join his defunct artistic creations in the great void, leaving just a few traces in science of his passage through life. Camilo immediately wrote his father a letter full of philosophical reflections.
The concluding paragraph read as follows:
In short, Father, if you feel confident that I have the necessary good sense to complete my studies here, and are prepared to trust in the inspiration I will draw from the soul of he who has now exchanged this vale of tears for infinite bliss, then allow me to remain here until I can return to my country as an enlightened citizen ready to serve his nation, as is my duty. Should you be opposed to my suggestion, then please say so frankly, and I will stay not a moment longer in this place, which has been half a homeland to me and which now (hélas!) is merely a place of exile.
His father was not a man capable of looking beneath the surface of this tearful epistle to see its real intention. He wept with joy when he read his son’s words, showed the letter to all his friends, and wrote at once to tell his son that he could stay in Paris as long as necessary to finish his studies, and that, in addition to his monthly allowance, he would always help him out should any unforeseen difficulty arise. Moreover, he wholeheartedly approved of his son’s sentiments regarding his own country and his godfather’s memory. He passed on to him the sincere good wishe
s of family and friends, in particular Uncle Jorge, Father Maciel, and Colonel Veiga, and concluded by sending him his blessing.
This paternal response reached Camilo in the middle of a lunch he was giving at the Café de Madrid for a couple of first-class ne’er-do-wells. His father’s response was exactly as he had expected, but he could not resist the desire to drink to his health, and was accompanied in this toast by those elegant vultures, his friends. That same day, Camilo invented one of those unforeseen difficulties mentioned by his father, and the next post carried to Brazil a long letter in which he thanked his father for his kindness, told him how much he missed him, confided his hopes for the future, and asked him very respectfully, in a postscript, to send him a small amount of money.
Thanks to this extra help, our Camilo threw himself into a dissolute, spendthrift life, although without neglecting his studies. He was considerably helped in this by his native intelligence and a certain degree of lingering pride, and when he finished his course, he passed his exams and was awarded the degree of doctor.
News of this success was sent to his father with a request for permission to go and visit other European countries. Permission was duly given, and he left Paris to visit Italy, Switzerland, Germany, and England. A few months later, he was back in Paris, and there he resumed his former existence, free this time from any irksome duties imposed from without. This promising young man ran the gamut of sensuous, frivolous pleasures with an enthusiasm that bordered on the suicidal. He had numerous solicitous, faithful friends, some of whom did not hesitate to give him the honor of becoming their creditor. He was extremely popular among the ladies of the night, a few of whom fell madly in love with him. There was not a scandal worthy of the name in which the key to his apartments was not a factor, and cet aimable brésilien was sure to be found in the best seats at any bullfight, banquet, or outing.
Eager to see his son again, the comendador wrote asking him to return to Brazil, but the son—by now a Parisian to his fingertips—could not imagine how any man could possibly leave the capital of France and bury himself in Goiás. He proffered various excuses, and stayed put. His father allowed this first act of disobedience to pass. He wrote again some time later, summoning him home; more excuses from Camilo. His father grew angry, and his third letter was full of bitter recriminations. Camilo came to his senses then and, with great sadness, prepared to return to Brazil, still hopeful that he would be able to come back and end his days on the Boulevard des Italiens or at the door of the Café Helder.
However, something happened that further delayed the young doctor’s return. Up until then, he had enjoyed only trivial love affairs and fleeting passions, but he suddenly fell head over heels in love with a beautiful Russian princess. Don’t be alarmed: the Russian princess I speak of was, at least according to some, a child of Rue du Bac and had worked in a fashion house until the Revolution of 1848. In the middle of the revolution, a Polish major fell in love with her and carried her off to Warsaw, where she was transformed into a princess with a name ending in -ine or -off, I’m not quite sure which. She led a mysterious life, mocking all her many adoring suitors, with the exception of Camilo, or so she said, declaring that, for him, she would be capable of setting aside her widow’s weeds. Mind you, one moment she would be uttering these thoughtless words and the next she would be gazing heavenward and protesting:
“Ah, no, my dear Alexis, I will never besmirch your memory by marrying another.”
These words were like dagger thrusts to Camilo’s heart. He would swear by all the saints of the Roman and Greek calendar that he had never loved anyone as he loved the beautiful princess. The cruel lady would, at times, seem disposed to believe Camilo’s protestations of love; at others, though, she would shake her head and beg forgiveness from the ghost of the venerable Prince Alexis. In the meantime, a final letter from his father arrived, giving his son one last warning, saying that if he did not come home, he would cut off all funds and bar his door to him.
Camilo could prevaricate no longer. He considered inventing some grave illness, but the thought that his father might not believe him and might actually stop his allowance soon put paid to that particular plan. Camilo did not even have the courage to confess all to the beautiful princess, fearing that she, on a generous impulse—perfectly natural in one who is in love—might offer to share with him her lands in Novgorod. To accept such an offer would be a humiliation and to reject it might cause offense. Camilo preferred to give up Paris, leaving the princess a letter in which he gave a brief account of what had happened and a promise to return one day.
These were the calamities that fate had chosen to heap on Camilo, and our unhappy traveler sat on in his hotel room recalling each and every one, until he heard the clock strike eight. He went out for a breath of air, but this only fueled his nostalgia for Paris. Everything seemed to him small and mean and gloomy. He gazed with Olympian disdain at all the shops on Rua do Ouvidor, which, to him, resembled a very long, if brightly lit, alleyway. He found the men inelegant and the women graceless. It occurred to him, however, that his hometown of Santa Luzia was even less Parisian than Rio de Janeiro, and then, cast down by this painful thought, he rushed back to the hotel and went to bed.
The following day, immediately after breakfast, he went to see his father’s agent. He declared that he intended to leave for Goiás in the next few days, and received from him the necessary money, in accordance with his father’s orders. The agent added that he had been told to provide him with anything he might need should he wish to spend a few weeks in Rio.
“No,” said Camilo. “There’s nothing to keep me here, and I’m eager now to set off.”
“I can imagine how homesick you must be. How many years has it been now?”
“Eight.”
“Eight! That’s a long time to be away.”
Camilo was about to leave when in walked a tall, thin man sporting a mustache and a chinstrap beard; he was wearing a gray overcoat and a panama hat. He looked at Camilo, stopped short, took a step back, then, after a reasonable interval, exclaimed:
“Unless I’m very much mistaken, you’re Senhor Camilo!”
“Yes, Camilo Seabra,” replied Camilo, shooting a questioning look at the agent.
“This gentleman,” said the agent, “is Senhor Soares, the son of the businessman of the same name from the town of Santa Luzia.”
“You mean Leandro? Why, you only had the merest fuzz of a beard when I left . . .”
“Yes, the very same,” said Soares, “the same Leandro who appears to you now with a full beard, like you, sir, and you also have a very fine mustache!”
“I would never have recognized you . . .”
“Well, I recognized you the moment I saw you, even though you’ve changed enormously. You are now a very refined young gentleman, whereas I have grown old. I’m twenty-six. No, don’t laugh. I’m old. When did you arrive?”
“Yesterday.”
“And when are you planning to travel to Goiás?”
“On the first steamer to Santos.”
“Me too! We can travel together.”
“How is your father? How is everyone? Father Maciel? Colonel Veiga? Give me all the news.”
“We’ll have plenty of time to talk. For the moment, I’ll just say that they’re all fine. Father Maciel was ill for a couple of months with a bad fever, and no one thought he would pull through, but he did. It would be disastrous were he to fall ill now that the Feast of the Holy Spirit is nearly upon us.”
“Do they still celebrate that?”
“Of course! Colonel Veiga is Emperor this year, and he’s promised to put on a splendid show. He’s already said he’ll hold a ball. But we’ll have plenty of time to talk, either here or on the boat. Where are you staying?”
Camilo told him the name of his hotel and said goodbye to his fellow provincial, pleased to have found a companion who would help lessen the tedium of that long journey. Soares followed Camilo over to the door and watched h
im walk away.
“You see what happens when you live abroad,” he said to the agent, who had joined him. “How he’s changed, and yet once he was pretty much like me.”
Chapter II
TO GOIáS
A few days later, they both set off for Santos, and from there to São Paulo, where they took the road to Goiás.
As Soares gradually resumed his former friendship with Camilo, he told him what his life had been like during the eight years they had been apart, and, for lack of anything better, this kept Camilo amused on the occasions when nature itself offered him no spectacles of its own. A few leagues into their journey, Camilo was already fully informed of Soares’s electoral battles, hunting exploits, amorous triumphs, and many other things, some important, some banal, but which Soares recounted with equal enthusiasm and interest.
Camilo was not a particularly observant fellow, but Soares so laid bare his soul to him that he had no option but to observe and examine it. Soares did not strike him as being a bad lad, but he was rather given to boasting about everything, be it politics, hunting, gambling, or love. There was one serious paragraph in this latter chapter, which had to do with a young woman, with whom he was so madly in love that he had vowed to kill anyone who dared so much as look at her.
“I mean it, Camilo,” declared Soares, “if anyone is ever bold enough to court her, there will be two poor wretches in this world, him and me. It certainly won’t end happily; people there know me and know that I always keep my promises. A few months ago, Major Valente lost the election because he boldly undertook to force the municipal judge to resign. When he failed to do so, he got his just deserts, and was left off the list of candidates. And I was the one who removed his name. The thing is—”
“But why don’t you marry the girl?” asked Camilo, thus skillfully avoiding a long account of this latest electoral triumph.
“I don’t marry her because . . . but are you really interested?”
The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis Page 23
