XXV
ALBERTO TO DONA RAQUEL
April 10
Forgive me for not coming last night, although be assured that you were much in my thoughts.
Your father has invited me to come and have supper with the family tonight; I’ll arrive early.
I’ll bring a picture of myself with me, too, even though I don’t know why you want it. I just hope you won’t put it to bad use.
As for Dona G., what can I say except that I find her a dull, affected girl, who doesn’t interest me in the least? If you like, I will merely greet her, but not talk to her at all. What more do you want of me?
Farewell, my suspicious one. Know only that I love you lots and lots and lots, now and always.
Your Alberto
XXVI
DONA RAQUEL TO DONA LUÍSA
April 17
Great news! Yesterday, he asked my father for my hand in marriage. You can’t imagine how happy I am! I wish you were here so that I could load you with kisses. But you’ll come to the wedding, won’t you? If you don’t, I won’t marry.
As you will have guessed, the picture included in this letter is of my fiancé. Isn’t he handsome? So distinguished! So intelligent! So soulful! And speaking of his soul, I do not believe that God has ever sent another such soul into the world. I don’t believe I deserve him.
Come quickly; the wedding will be in May.
Tell your husband.
Raquel
XXVII
DONA LUÍSA TO DONA RAQUEL
Juiz de Fora, April 22
Honestly! You tell me everything but the name of your fiancé!
Luísa
XXVIII
DONA RAQUEL TO DONA LUÍSA
Rio, April 27
You’re quite right, I’m so distracted. But happiness explains and excuses everything. My fiancé is Dr. Alberto.
Raquel
XXIX
DONA LUÍSA TO DONA RAQUEL
Juiz de Fora, May 1
!!!
Luísa
Author’s Preface
The title Miscellaneous Papers might seem to deny this book a certain unity, leading the reader to believe that the author has gathered together various writings of a diverse nature simply in order not to lose them. This is indeed the truth, but not quite the truth. Miscellaneous they are, but they did not come to this place like travelers who just happen to find themselves staying at the same inn. They are persons drawn from the same family, obliged by their father to sit at the same table.
As for their genre, I do not know what I can say that would be of any use. The book is in the hands of the reader. I will only say that if there are any pages which seem to be mere stories and others that do not, I defend myself from the latter by saying that the reader may find something of interest in the other pages, and I defend myself from the former with the words of Saint John and of Diderot. Describing the infamous beast of the apocalypse, the Evangelist added (17:9): “And here is the mind which hath wisdom.” Minus the wisdom, those words should just about cover me. As for Diderot, everyone knows that he not only wrote stories, some of them delightful, but even advised a friend to write them too. And in this, the encyclopedist was entirely right, for when someone tells a story, our spirits lift, time races by, and the story of life ends, without any of us noticing.
Thus, from wherever the reproach may come, I hope that absolution will also come from that same place.
Machado de Assis
October 1882
THE ALIENIST
Chapter 1
ON HOW ITAGUAí GAINED A MADHOUSE
THE CHRONICLES OF ITAGUAÍ record that a long time ago there lived in the town a certain physician, Dr. Simão Bacamarte, the son of landed gentry, and the greatest physician in Brazil, Portugal, and the two Spains. He had studied at Coimbra and Padua. At thirty-four, he returned to Brazil, the king being unable to persuade him to stay in Coimbra, running the university, or in Lisbon, attending to matters of state.
“Science,” he said to His Majesty, “is my sole concern; Itaguaí is my universe.”
Having said this, he took himself off to Itaguaí and devoted himself body and soul to the study of science, alternating healing with reading, and demonstrating theorems with poultices. When he reached the age of forty, he married Dona Evarista da Costa e Mascarenhas, a lady of twenty-five, the widow of a magistrate, who was neither pretty nor charming. One of his uncles, an inveterate meddler in the affairs of others, was frankly surprised by his nephew’s choice, and told him so. Simão Bacamarte explained to him that Dona Evarista combined physiological and anatomical attributes of the first order: good digestion, regular sleep, a steady pulse, and excellent eyesight; she was thus fit to provide him with healthy, sturdy, intelligent offspring. If, in addition to such accomplishments—the only ones with which a sensible man should concern himself—Dona Evarista’s features were somewhat badly formed, then, far from regretting it, he thanked God, since he would thereby not run the risk of ignoring the interests of science in the exclusive, trivial, and vulgar contemplation of his wife.
Dona Evarista failed to live up to her husband’s expectations, providing him with neither sturdy nor sickly offspring. Science is an inherently patient pursuit, and so our doctor waited three years, then four, then five. At the end of this period, he carried out a rigorous study of the matter, reread all the authoritative texts, Arab and otherwise, which he had brought with him to Itaguaí, sent inquiries to the Italian and German universities, and concluded by advising his wife to follow a special diet. The eminent lady, accustomed to eating only succulent Itaguaí pork, did not heed her husband’s advice, and to her understandable but unpardonable resistance we owe the total extinction of the Bacamarte dynasty.
Science, however, has the ineffable gift of curing all ills; our physician immersed himself entirely in the study and practice of medicine. It was at this point that one of its lesser nooks and crannies caught his particular attention: that pertaining to the psychic, to the examination of cerebral pathology, also known at that time as alienism. Nowhere in the colony, or even the kingdom, was there a single expert on this barely explored, indeed almost unexplored, subject. Simão Bacamarte saw an opportunity for Lusitanian, and in particular Brazilian, science to garland itself in “everlasting laurels”—the expression he himself used, but only in a moment of ecstasy within the privacy of his own home; externally, he was modest, as befits a man of learning.
“The health of the mind,” he declaimed, “is the worthiest occupation for a physician.”
“For a true physician,” added Crispim Soares, the town’s apothecary and one of Bacamarte’s close friends and supper companions.
Among the other sins of which it stands accused by the historians, the Itaguaí municipal council had made no provision for the insane. Those who were raving mad were simply locked away in their own homes, and remained uncured and uncared-for until death came to rob them of the gift of life. The tamer ones were left to wander the streets. Simão Bacamarte quickly resolved to remedy such harmful practices; he requested permission from the council to build a hospital that would provide treatment and lodgings for all the lunatics of Itaguaí and the surrounding towns and villages, in return for a stipend payable by the municipality when the patient’s family were unable to do so. The proposal excited the curiosity of the whole town and met with great resistance, for it is always hard to uproot absurd or even merely bad habits.
“Look here, Dona Evarista,” said Father Lopes, the parish priest, “why don’t you try to interest your husband in a trip to Rio de Janeiro? All this studying can’t be good for him; it gives him all sorts of strange ideas.”
Greatly alarmed, Dona Evarista went to her husband and told him that she was filled by various consuming desires, in particular the desire to go to Rio de Janeiro and eat everything that he considered would help with his previously stated objective. But with the rare wisdom that distinguished him, the great man saw through this pretense and rep
lied, smiling, that she need have no fear. He then went straight to the town hall, where the councillors were debating his proposal, and defended it with such eloquence that the majority resolved to authorize his request, and, at the same time, voted through a local tax destined to fund the treatment, board, and lodging of any of the insane who had no other means of support. It was not easy to find something new to be taxed, for everything in Itaguaí had already been earmarked. After lengthy study, the tax was imposed on the use of plumes on funeral horses. Anyone who wished to add feathers to the headdresses of horses drawing a hearse would pay two tostões to the council for each hour that elapsed between the time of death and the final blessing at the graveside. The town clerk got himself in a terrible muddle calculating the potential revenue arising from the new tax, and one of the councillors, who had little faith in the doctor’s undertaking, asked that the clerk be relieved of such a pointless task.
“The calculations are entirely unnecessary,” he said, “because Dr. Bacamarte’s scheme will never come to anything. Whoever heard of putting all the lunatics together in the same building?”
The worthy councillor was mistaken, and the doctor’s scheme was duly implemented. As soon as he had received permission, he began to build the house. It was in Rua Nova, which was the finest street in Itaguaí at the time; it had fifty windows on each side, a courtyard in the middle, and numerous cells to house the inmates. An eminent Arabist, the doctor had read in the Koran that Muhammad had declared that the insane were to be revered, for Allah had deprived them of their wits so that they would not sin. This struck him as a beautiful and profound idea, and he had it engraved on the front of the house. However, since he feared the parish priest’s reaction, and through him that of the bishop, he attributed this sentiment to Benedict VIII, an otherwise pious fraud, which earned him, over lunch, a lengthy exposition from Father Lopes on the life of that eminent pontiff.
The asylum was given the name “Casa Verde” on account of its green shutters, this being the first time such a color had been used for that purpose in Itaguaí. It was inaugurated with great pomp; people flocked from all the towns and villages near and far, as well as from the city of Rio de Janeiro itself, to attend the ceremonies, which went on for seven days. Many patients had already been admitted, and their relatives were able to see for themselves the paternal care and Christian charity with which they would be treated. Basking in her husband’s glory, Dona Evarista put on her finest clothes and decked herself in jewels, flowers, and silks. During those memorable days, she was a veritable queen; despite the rather prim social customs of the time, everyone made a point of visiting her two or even three times, and their praise went beyond mere compliments, for—and this fact is a credit to the society of the time—they saw in Dona Evarista the happy wife of an illustrious man, a man of lofty ideals, and, if they envied her, theirs was the blessed and noble envy of true admirers.
At the end of seven days, the public festivities came to an end; Itaguaí finally had a madhouse.
Chapter 2
A FLOOD OF LUNATICS
Three days later, Simão Bacamarte, now the town’s official alienist, opened his heart to Crispim Soares the apothecary, and revealed to him his most intimate thoughts.
“Charity, Senhor Soares, certainly enters into my way of thinking, but only as seasoning—like salt, you might say—for that is how I interpret Saint Paul’s words to the Corinthians: “And if I know all that can be known, and have not charity, I am nothing.” The real purpose, though, in this Casa Verde project of mine, is to carry out an in-depth study of madness in its various degrees, classifying each type and finally discovering both the true cause of the phenomenon and its universal remedy. Therein lies the mystery of my intentions. And I believe that in this I will be doing a great service to humanity.”
“A very great service indeed,” said the apothecary.
“Without this asylum,” continued the alienist, “I could achieve very little, but with it, my studies will have much greater scope.”
“Much greater,” echoed the apothecary.
And they were right. Lunatics from all the neighboring towns and villages poured into the Casa Verde. There were the violent, the meek, the monomaniacs, indeed the entire family of all those strangers to reason. By the end of four months, the Casa Verde was a hive of activity. The initial cells soon filled up, requiring a further wing with thirty-seven more cells to be added. Father Lopes admitted that he had never imagined there to be so many lunatics in the world, nor that some cases would be so totally inexplicable. There was, for example, the ignorant and uncouth young man who, every day after breakfast, would launch into an academic lecture embellished with tropes, antitheses, and apostrophes, with a few Greek and Latin flourishes and the odd snippet from Cicero, Apuleius, and Tertullian. The priest could scarcely believe his ears. What! A boy he had seen only three months before playing handball in the street!
“Oh, I agree,” said the alienist, “but the truth is there before your very eyes, Your Reverence. It happens every day of the week.”
“As far as I’m concerned,” replied the priest, “this can only be explained by the confounding of languages in the Tower of Babel, as described in the Scriptures; since the languages were all mixed up in ancient times, it must be easy to switch between them when reason is absent.”
“That could well be the divine explanation for the phenomenon,” agreed the alienist after a moment’s reflection, “but it is not impossible that there is also a human, indeed purely scientific, explanation, and that is what I intend to look into.”
“Very well, but it troubles me, it really does.”
There were three or four inmates who had been driven to madness by love, but only two stood out because of the curious nature of their symptoms. The first, a young man of twenty-five by the name of Falcão, was convinced he was the morning star; he would stand with his legs apart and his arms spread wide like the rays of a star, and stay like that for hours on end asking if the sun had come up yet so that he could retire. The other fellow paced endlessly around the rooms or courtyard, and up and down the corridors, searching for the ends of the earth. He was a miserable wretch whose wife had left him to run off with a dandy. As soon as he discovered she was gone, he armed himself with a pistol and went after them; two hours later, he found them by a lake and murdered them both with exquisite cruelty. The avenger’s jealousy was satisfied, but at the price of his sanity. That was the beginning of his obsessive wanderings, relentlessly pursuing the fugitive lovers to the ends of the earth.
There were several interesting cases of delusions of grandeur, the most notable of which was the wretched son of a poor tailor, who would recount to the walls (for he never looked anyone in the face) his entire family pedigree, as follows:
“God begat an egg, the egg begat the sword, the sword begat David, David begat the purple, the purple begat the duke, the duke begat the marquis, the marquis begat the count, and that’s me.”
Then he would slap his forehead, snap his fingers, and repeat it again, five or six times in a row: “God begat an egg, the egg begat . . .” and so on.
Another of the same type was a humble clerk who fancied himself to be the king’s chamberlain; another was the cattle drover from Minas Gerais who had a mania for distributing herds of cattle to everyone he met: he would give three hundred head to one, six hundred to another, twelve hundred to someone else, and so on. I won’t mention the many cases of religious monomania, save for one fellow who, on account of his Christian name being João de Deus—John of God—went around saying he was John the God, and promising the kingdom of heaven to whoever would worship him and the torments of hell to everyone else. Then there was Garcia, a university graduate, who never said anything because he was convinced that if he uttered so much as a single word, all the stars would fall from the sky and set the earth on fire, for such was the power with which God had invested him.
That, at least, is what he wrote on the piece of paper
provided by the alienist not so much out of charity as out of scientific interest.
For the alienist’s dedication was more extraordinary than all the manias residing in the Casa Verde; it was nothing short of astonishing. Bacamarte set about putting in place two administrators, an idea of Crispim Soares’s that Bacamarte accepted along with the apothecary’s two nephews, whom he charged with implementing a set of rules and regulations, approved by the council, for the distribution of food and clothing, as well as keeping the accounts and other such matters. Bacamarte himself was thus free to concentrate on his medical duties.
“The Casa Verde,” he said to the priest, “is now a world unto itself, in which there is both a temporal and a spiritual government.” Father Lopes laughed at this godly quip and added, with the sole aim of making his own little joke: “Any more of that and I’ll have you reported to the Pope himself.”
Once relieved of his administrative burdens, the alienist embarked upon a vast enterprise, that of classifying his patients. He divided them, first, into two main categories—the violent and the meek—and from there proceeded to the subcategories of monomanias, deliria and various kinds of hallucinations. When that was done, he began a long and unremitting analysis of each patient’s daily routine, when their outbursts occurred, their likes and dislikes, their words, gestures, and obsessions; he would inquire into their lives, professions, habits, how their illness had first manifested itself, any accidents suffered in childhood or adolescence, any other illnesses, any family history of mental illness; in short, an inquiry beyond that of even the most scrupulous of magistrates. And each day, he noted down a new observation, some interesting discovery or extraordinary phenomenon. At the same time, he studied the best diets, medicines, cures, and palliatives, both those handed down by his beloved Arabs and those which he himself discovered by dint of wisdom and patience. This work took up most of his time. He barely slept or ate, and even when he did eat he carried on working, either consulting an ancient text or ruminating over some particular matter; he would often spend an entire meal without saying a single word to Dona Evarista.
The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis Page 37
