The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  Isabel had stopped farther up the road, and seemed to be admiring the splendors of the nature around her. They almost caught up with her a few minutes later, and she was just about to ride on, when Dona Gertrudes called to her:

  “Isabel!”

  The young woman turned, and Dona Gertrudes rode over to her.

  “Don’t you remember Dr. Camilo Seabra?”

  “You may not remember me,” said Camilo. “You were only twelve when I left, and that was eight years ago!”

  “No, I do remember,” answered Isabel, slightly turning her head, but still without looking at him.

  Then, gently urging on her horse, she rode ahead. Although this was rather a strange way to greet an old acquaintance, what most impressed Camilo was Isabel’s beauty, which thoroughly deserved its reputation.

  As far as he could judge from that first encounter, the slender horsewoman was tall rather than short. She had an olive complexion, but her skin was satin-smooth, with a faint rosy tinge, doubtless the effect of her agitation, for people usually described her as very pale. Camilo had not been able to see what color her eyes were, but despite this, and possibly more importantly, he had sensed their brightness, and understood at once how the eyes of that lovely maiden could have so enchanted poor Soares.

  He did not have time to study her other features, but was able to contemplate at his leisure what he had already admired from afar, namely, her naturally elegant, upright posture, and the graceful ease with which she rode. He had seen many elegant, skillful horsewomen, but she had a quality that gave her an advantage over them all; perhaps it was her easy, casual gestures or the spontaneity of her movements, or something else entirely, or a combination of all those things, that gave this interesting young woman incontestable supremacy.

  Isabel occasionally slowed her horse and spoke to Dona Gertrudes, pointing out some trick of the light or a bird flying by or a sound she had heard—but not once did she turn to face Camilo or give him so much as a sideways glance. Absorbed in contemplation of her, Camilo let the conversation lapse, and he and Dona Gertrudes rode along in silence for some minutes. They were interrupted by another rider approaching at a fast trot from behind.

  It was Soares.

  He seemed completely different from their last encounter. He greeted them all in the same smiling, jovial manner he had affected during the first few days of his journey with Camilo. It was easy enough, though, to see that this was all a façade. His face would cloud over from time to time, or he would make a despairing gesture which, fortunately, escaped the notice of the others. He feared the triumph of a man who was his physical and intellectual superior, and who, what’s more, had the great advantage of being very much in the public eye: the main attraction, the star performer, the man of the moment. Everything was conspiring to demolish Soares’s last hope, which was to see the young woman die without ever marrying. This unfortunate lover had the all-too-common tendency of wishing to see the cup he himself could not raise to his lips lying shattered or useless.

  His fear had grown all the greater, when, hiding in the bamboo grove to watch Isabel ride by, as he often did, he saw Camilo in their company. He could not suppress a cry of surprise and even took a step in their direction, but stopped himself in time. As we saw, the party rode on, leaving the jealous suitor swearing to all the powers in heaven and on earth that he would have his revenge on his bold rival, if, indeed, he was his rival.

  As we well know, he was not a rival; the memory of the Muscovite Artemis was still fresh in Camilo’s heart, and despite the distance that lay now between them, he could still feel her ardent, sorrowful tears. But who could persuade Leandro Soares that the elegant “young man from Europe,” as people called him, would not fall in love with that elusive young woman?

  Isabel, on the other hand, reined in her horse as soon as she saw her unfortunate suitor and affectionately held out her hand to him, accompanying this gesture with the most adorable of smiles. This was not enough, alas, to dispel the poor young man’s doubts. Camilo, however, interpreted her actions quite differently.

  “She either loves him or she’s a complete fraud,” he thought.

  At that precise moment—and for the first time—Isabel chanced to look at Camilo. Whether through instinct or sheer perspicacity, she read this hidden thought of his; she frowned slightly and a look of such bewilderment crossed her face that Camilo felt utterly perplexed and could not help adding, this time actually murmuring the words:

  “Or else she’s in league with the devil.”

  “Perhaps she is,” responded Isabel softly, her gaze fixed now on the ground.

  These words were spoken so quietly that no one else heard. Half astonished, half curious, Camilo could not take his eyes off the lovely Isabel after those words uttered in such strange circumstances. Soares was gazing at Camilo as tenderly as a hawk looks at a pigeon. Isabel was playing with her whip. Dona Gertrudes, afraid they might miss Father Maciel’s mass and be affectionately scolded by her husband, gave orders for them to proceed, and so they did.

  Chapter IV

  THE FESTIVAL

  The following Saturday, the town had a very different air about it. Crowds of people had arrived to join in the annual Festival of the Holy Spirit.

  Very few places have entirely lost their taste for such old-fashioned celebrations, a remnant from past ages, which the writers of future centuries will study with interest in order to describe to their contemporaries a Brazil they will no longer recognize. At the time of these events, one of the most authentic of such festivals was that held in the town of Santa Luzia.

  Colonel Veiga, who had been appointed that year’s Emperor of the Holy Spirit, was staying in a house he owned in town. This was the meeting place on the Saturday night for the traditional group of shepherds and shepherdesses, who all arrived in their picturesque outfits, accompanied by the classic “old man” in breeches and stockings, flat shoes, a long vest and overcoat, and holding a large stick.

  Camilo was at the colonel’s house for the arrival of the shepherds, with, at their head, a few musicians and, behind them, a whole throng of people. They formed a circle out in the street, and a shepherd and shepherdess initiated the dancing. Then everyone danced, sang, and played both outside the house and in the colonel’s parlor, and the colonel was quite beside himself with glee. It is a moot point, and one that will probably never be resolved, whether, on that day, Colonel Veiga actually preferred being Emperor of the Divine Holy Spirit to being a government minister.

  And yet this was merely a small example of the colonel’s majestic status. The Sunday morning sun would reveal far greater things. And this, it seems, was why the king of light chose to bless that day with his finest rays, for the sky had never been more limpidly blue. Overnight, a few dark clouds had rather dimmed the hopes of the festivalgoers; fortunately, though, a stiff morning breeze had swept the sky clean and freshened the air.

  The population responded to nature’s bounty, and, bright and early, sallied forth in their Sunday best, joking, laughing, talking, and feeling utterly content.

  The air crackled with fireworks, and the church bells gaily summoned the people to worship.

  Camilo had spent the night in town at Father Maciel’s house, and was woken far earlier than expected by the bells and fireworks and other festive noises. At his father’s house, he had kept to his Parisian habits, and the comendador judged it best not to disrupt this pattern. He woke at eleven in the morning, except on Sundays, when he would go to mass so as not entirely to offend against the local customs.

  “What on earth is going on, Father Maciel?” shouted Camilo from his room, when the flashing lights from a girandola firework finally forced him to open his eyes.

  “What do you think?” answered Father Maciel, poking his head around the door. “It’s the start of the festival.”

  “You mean they begin in the middle of the night?”

  “What do you mean, ‘the middle of the night’?” exclaimed
Father Maciel. “It’s broad daylight.”

  Unable to go back to sleep, Camilo was obliged to leave his bed. He had breakfast with the priest, recounted a few anecdotes, declared that Paris was the ideal city, and set off for the Emperor’s house. Father Maciel left with him, and on the way, they saw Leandro Soares in the distance.

  “Can you tell me, Father,” asked Camilo, “why Dr. Matos’s daughter refuses to accept that poor man’s love?”

  Father Maciel adjusted his spectacles and gave the following thoughtful response.

  “That’s a rather foolish question.”

  “It can’t be so very foolish,” retorted Camilo, “because I’m hardly the only person to have asked it.”

  “That’s true,” said the priest, “but one shouldn’t necessarily repeat what other people say. Isabel doesn’t love Soares because she doesn’t love him.”

  “Don’t you think her slightly strange?”

  “No,” said the priest, “she seems to me extremely astute.”

  “Why so?”

  “I suspect that she’s very ambitious. She doesn’t accept Soares’s protestations of love because she wants to see if she can get a husband who will open a door for her into the world of politics.”

  “Surely not!” said Camilo, shrugging dismissively.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I may be wrong, but I think that is the real reason. Everyone here has his own explanation as to why Isabel won’t marry. However, all their explanations strike me as absurd. I think mine is much better.”

  Camilo made a few further objections, then said goodbye and headed for the colonel’s house.

  The Emperor of the festivities could barely contain his excitement. This was the first time he had held this honorific post and he was determined to carry out his duties brilliantly, even more brilliantly than his predecessors. While this demonstrated a perfectly natural desire not to be outdone, there was also an element of political envy. Behind his back, some of his opponents were saying that the proud colonel wasn’t up to the job.

  “I’ll show them,” he said when certain friends reported this malicious gossip to him.

  Camilo entered the room as the colonel was in the process of giving some last-minute instructions about the supper that would follow the festivities, and listening to the details that one of the fraternity brethren was giving him about the ceremony in the sacristy.

  “I won’t keep you, Colonel,” said Camilo once he was alone with Veiga, “I’d hate to delay you.”

  “No, not at all,” said the Emperor of the Divine Holy Spirit, “everything’s in hand. Is your father coming?”

  “Yes, he should be here already.”

  “Have you seen the church?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “It’s looking very pretty. I don’t wish to boast, but I think the festivities will certainly be as good as those of other years, if not better.”

  It was absolutely impossible to disagree with this opinion when the man giving it was doing so in his own honor. Camilo, in turn, praised the celebrations. The colonel listened to him with a rather smug smile on his face, and was about to point out to his young friend that he clearly didn’t appreciate their full significance, when Camilo changed the subject and asked:

  “Has Dr. Matos arrived?”

  “Yes, he has.”

  “With his family?”

  “Yes, with his family.”

  At this point, they were interrupted by the sound of approaching music and many fireworks exploding.

  “It’s them!” cried Veiga. “They’re coming to fetch me. If you’ll excuse me.”

  And with that he rushed upstairs to change his black trousers and linen jacket for the uniform and insignia appropriate to his lofty position. Camilo went over to the window to watch the procession arrive, which it soon did, composed of a band of musicians, the Brotherhood of the Holy Spirit, and the shepherds and shepherdesses from the night before. The brethren were wearing their scarlet chasubles and were walking slowly and gravely along, surrounded by the crowds filling the street and clustering around the door to the colonel’s house, waiting for him to emerge.

  When the procession stopped outside, the music also stopped, and all eyes peered curiously up at the windows. However, the new Emperor had not yet finished dressing, and the onlookers had to content themselves with looking at Camilo. Meanwhile, four or five of the higher-ranking brethren had left the group and climbed the steps to the colonel’s front door.

  Minutes later, those same high-ranking brethren were greeting Camilo, one of them higher up than the others and not just as regards his rank, for Major Brás’s great height would have been his most notable feature were it not in direct competition with his extreme thinness. Despite this, the major’s chasuble fit him well, because it neither hung down below his knees, as it did with the others, nor just below his waist, as it would have done had it been made to the same measurements. It was a sort of middle way. It reached to just above the knee, and had been made specifically to reconcile the major’s enormous stature with the accepted principles of elegance.

  All the brethren shook Camilo’s hand and asked anxiously for the colonel.

  “He won’t be long,” said Camilo. “He’s just getting dressed.”

  “The church is full,” said one of the brethren. “We’re just waiting for the colonel now.”

  “And it’s only right that we should wait,” said Major Brás.

  “Seconded,” said the brethren in unison.

  “Besides,” added the immensely tall officer, “we have plenty of time. We don’t have to go far.”

  The other brethren nodded their assent, and the major then went on to tell Camilo how much work both he and his colleagues had put into organizing the festival—in fact, just as much work as the colonel.

  “As a reward for our modest efforts”—Camilo dismissed this remark with a shake of his head—“things shouldn’t go too badly.”

  The major had barely spoken these words when the colonel appeared at the door to the parlor in all his splendor.

  Camilo had no idea what the Emperor’s uniform and insignia would be like, and so he regarded him with some astonishment.

  As well as the black trousers, which he had been wearing when Camilo had arrived, the colonel had donned a tailcoat, whose cut and style could have rivaled that of the most impeccably dressed member of the Cassino Fluminense. So far, so good. On his chest glinted the vast insignia of the Order of the Rose, which, again, was perfectly acceptable. However, what exceeded all expectation, and what accounted for the look of amazement on Camilo’s face, was the gleaming, ornate crown made of cardboard and gold paper that the colonel had on his head.

  Camilo took a step back and fixed his eyes on the colonel’s imperial crown. He had forgotten that this was an indispensable item on such occasions, and, after living for eight years in a very different culture, he had assumed that such costumes would have long since been dead and buried.

  The colonel shook hands with all his friends and declared that he was ready to accompany them.

  “We don’t want to keep the people waiting,” he said.

  They immediately went out into the street. The crowd stirred into life when they caught sight of the scarlet chasuble worn by one of the brethren. Behind him came another chasuble, quickly followed by all the other chasubles, on either side of the richly adorned Emperor. As soon as the sun’s rays fell on the golden crown, it glinted and glittered in the most extraordinary fashion. The colonel looked to left and right, nodding to various people in the throng, then took up the place of honor in the procession. The band immediately broke into a march, and off they all went to the church, the colonel, the brotherhood, the shepherds and shepherdesses.

  As soon as the procession came within sight of the church, the bell ringer, who had been watching and waiting, put into practice all the most complicated tricks of his trade, while a girandola, along with
a few other stray fireworks, announced to the heavens that the Emperor of the Divine Holy Spirit had arrived. His arrival caused general excitement in the church. A burly, energetic master of ceremonies was trying, albeit with great difficulty, to clear a path through, but the disorderly crowd kept undoing all his good work. Finally, what always happens on these occasions happened, and a path opened up of its own accord, and, with some effort, the colonel made his way through the crush, preceded and accompanied by the members of the fraternity, until he reached the throne that had been placed next to the altar. He confidently climbed the steps up to the throne and sat down as proudly as if he were Emperor of all the empires of the world.

  When Camilo arrived at the church, the ceremony had already begun. He found a reasonable place to sit, or, rather, an excellent one, because it provided him with a view of a large group of ladies, among them the lovely Isabel.

  Camilo was anxious to speak to Isabel again. He could not forget their encounter on the road and the remarkable perspicacity she had shown on that occasion. She appeared not to notice him, but Camilo was so experienced in dealing with the fairer sex that he realized at once that she had, in fact, seen him and was deliberately avoiding his gaze. This, along with the incidents of the previous Sunday, made the following question surface in his mind:

  “What has she got against me?”

  The ceremony continued without further incident. Camilo did not take his eyes off his beautiful enigma, as he already called her, but the enigma seemed immune to any feelings of curiosity. Once, though, toward the end of the ceremony, their eyes did meet. It should be pointed out that he found her looking at him. He bowed, she reciprocated, and that was that. Once the ceremony was over, the brotherhood escorted the colonel back to his house. In the hurly-burly of leaving the church, Camilo, who still had his eyes fixed on Isabel, heard an unfamiliar voice whisper in his ear:

  “Watch what you’re doing!”

  Camilo turned and came face-to-face with a short, thin man with small, bright eyes; he was poorly but neatly dressed. They stared at each other for a few seconds in silence. Camilo didn’t recognize the face and didn’t dare demand an explanation for the words he had just heard, even though he was burning to know more.