The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  “Fancy coming out in this weather!” she exclaimed. “That is true friendship!”

  “I didn’t want to wait for you to visit me, simply to show that I’m not one to stand on ceremony, and that between you and me there must be no constraints.”

  This was followed by the same compliments and sweet, caressing words as on the previous day. Dona Benedita kept insisting that coming to visit her that very day was the greatest of courtesies and a proof of genuine friendship, but, she added a moment later, she wished for further proof and asked Dona Maria dos Anjos to stay for dinner. Her friend excused herself, pleading that she had to be elsewhere; furthermore, this was the very proof of friendship that she herself desired, namely, that Dona Benedita should come and dine at her house first. Dona Benedita did not hesitate and promised that she would dine with her that very week.

  “I was just this minute writing your name,” she continued.

  “Were you?”

  “Yes, I’m writing to my husband and telling him all about you. I won’t repeat to you what I’ve written, but you can imagine that I spoke very ill of you, telling him what an unkind, insufferable, tedious woman you are, a terrible bore . . . You can just imagine!”

  “I can indeed. And you can add that, despite all that and more, I send him my deepest respects.”

  “See how witty she is!” remarked Dona Benedita, looking at her daughter.

  Eulália smiled unconvincingly. Perched on a chair facing her mother, beside the sofa on which Dona Maria dos Anjos was sitting, Eulália gave the two ladies’ conversation only the degree of attention that good manners required, and not a jot more.

  She came close to looking bored; every smile that appeared on her lips was wan and languid, pure duty. One of her braids—it was still morning and she was wearing her hair in two long braids—served her as a pretext to look away from time to time, because she would occasionally tug at it to count the hairs, or so it seemed. At least that’s what Dona Maria dos Anjos thought, when she occasionally shot a glance in Eulália’s direction, curious and somewhat suspicious. For her part, Dona Benedita saw nothing; she had eyes only for her dear friend, her enchantress, as she called her two or three times: “my dear, dear enchantress.”

  “Enough!”

  Dona Maria dos Anjos explained that she had a few other visits to make, but her friend prevailed upon her to stay for a little longer. She was wearing a very elegant cape of black lace, and Dona Benedita said that she had one just the same and sent one of the slaves to fetch it. Delays, delays. But Leandrinho’s mother was so pleased! Dona Benedita filled her heart with happiness; she found in her all the qualities best suited to her own personality and her manners: tenderness, trust, enthusiasm, simplicity, a warm and willing familiarity. The cape was brought, refreshments were offered; Dona Maria dos Anjos would accept nothing more than a kiss and the promise that they would dine with her that very week.

  “On Thursday,” said Dona Benedita.

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “What would you have me do to you if you don’t come? It will need to be a very harsh punishment.”

  “The harshest possible punishment would be for you never to speak to me again!”

  Dona Maria dos Anjos kissed her friend tenderly; then she hugged and kissed Eulália, too, but with rather less enthusiasm on both sides. They were measuring each other up, studying each other, and beginning to understand each other. Dona Benedita accompanied her friend to the stairs, then went over to the window to watch her get into her carriage; after settling herself in, her friend put her head out of the window, looked up, and waved goodbye.

  “Don’t forget!”

  “Thursday.”

  Eulália had already left the drawing room, and Dona Benedita rushed to finish the letter. It was getting late; she had said nothing yet about yesterday’s dinner, and it was too late to do so now. She gave a brief summary, extolling the virtues of her new friend; then, finally, she wrote the following words:

  Canon Roxo spoke to me about marrying Eulália to Dona Maria dos Anjos’s son. He graduated in law this year; he’s a conservative and, if Itaboraí does not resign from the government, he expects to be appointed a public prosecutor. I think it is the best possible match. Leandrinho (for that is his name) is a very polite young man; he proposed a toast to you, full of such fine words that I cried. I don’t know if Eulália will want him or not; I have my suspicions about another young fellow who joined us the other day in Laranjeiras. But what do you think? Should I limit myself to advising her, or should I impose our wishes? I really think I ought to use my authority, but I don’t want to do anything without your say-so. The best thing would be if you came here yourself.

  She finished the letter and sealed it. At that moment, Eulália came in, and Dona Benedita gave her the letter to be sent off, without delay, to the post office. The daughter left the room with the letter, not knowing that it concerned her and her future. Dona Benedita slumped down on the sofa, exhausted. Even though there was much she had not mentioned, the letter had still turned out to be a very long one and writing long letters was such a tiresome business!

  Chapter III

  Yes, writing long letters was such a tiresome business! The words with which we closed the previous chapter fully explain Dona Benedita’s exhaustion. Half an hour later, she sat up a little and glanced around the study, as if looking for something. That something was a book. She found the book, or, rather, books, since there were no fewer than three, two open, one marked at a certain page, all lying on different chairs. They were the three novels that Dona Benedita was reading at the same time. One of them, you will note, had required considerable effort on her part. She had heard it warmly spoken of it while she was out walking near the house; it had arrived from Europe only the day before. Dona Benedita was so excited that, despite the lateness of the hour and the distance, she turned back and went to buy the book herself, visiting no fewer than three bookshops. She returned home so eager to read it that she opened the book during dinner and read the first five chapters that same night. When sleep overcame her, she slept; the following day, she was unable to continue reading, and forgot all about the book. Now, however, a week later, and wanting to read something, there it was close to hand.

  “Ah!”

  And so she returns to the sofa, lovingly opens the book, and plunges eyes, heart and soul into the reading that had been so abruptly interrupted. It’s only natural that Dona Benedita should love novels, and it is even more natural that she should love nice ones. Do not be surprised, therefore, when she forgets everything around her to read this one; everything, even her daughter’s piano lesson, for which the piano teacher arrived and left without Dona Benedita once visiting the drawing room. Eulália said goodbye to her teacher, then went to the study, opened the door, tiptoed over to the sofa, and woke her mother with a kiss.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead!”

  “Is it still raining?”

  “No, Mama, it’s stopped now.”

  “Has the letter gone?”

  “Yes, I told José to hurry. I bet you forgot to give my dearest love to Papa? I thought so. Well, I never forget.”

  Dona Benedita yawned. She was no longer thinking about the letter; she was thinking about the corset she had ordered from Charavel’s, one with softer stays than the last one. She didn’t like hard stays, for she had a very delicate body. Eulália talked a little more about her father, but soon stopped, and, seeing the famous novel lying open on the floor, she picked it up, closed it, and set it on the table. At that moment, a letter was brought in for Dona Benedita; it was from Canon Roxo, who wrote to ask whether they were at home that day, because he would be going to a funeral nearby.

  “Of course we’ll be at home!” Dona Benedita cried. “Do tell him to come.”

  Eulália wrote a little note in reply. Three-quarters of an hour later the canon entered Dona Benedita’s drawing room. He was a good man, the canon, an old friend of the family
, in which, besides carving the turkey on solemn occasions, as we have seen, he exercised the role of family advisor, and did so both loyally and lovingly. Eulália was particularly dear to him; he had known her since she was a little girl, his attentive and mischievous little friend, and he felt a paternal affection toward her, so paternal that he had taken it upon himself to see her properly married, and, thought the canon, there could be no better bridegroom than Leandrinho. That day, his idea of going to dine with them was little more than a pretext; the canon wished to raise the subject directly with the young lady herself. Eulália, either because she guessed his intentions or because the canon’s presence brought Leandrinho to mind, became worried and annoyed.

  But worried or annoyed does not mean sad or dispirited. She was resolute, she had a strong character, she could resist, and she did resist, declaring to the canon, when he spoke to her that night about Leandrinho, that she absolutely did not wish to marry.

  “Cross your heart and hope to die?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to live.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I don’t want to.”

  “And if Mama wants you to?”

  “But I don’t want to.”

  “Well, that’s not very nice of you, Eulália.”

  Eulália did not reply. The canon returned yet again to the subject, praising the candidate’s fine qualities, the hopes of his family, the many advantages of their marriage; she listened to all this, but said nothing. However, when the canon put the question to her directly, her response was invariably:

  “I’ve already said all there is to say.”

  “You really don’t want to marry?”

  “No.”

  The canon’s disappointment was deep and sincere. He wanted to see her properly married, and he could think of no better husband. He went so far as to probe her, discreetly, about whether her interest lay elsewhere. But Eulália, no less discreetly, responded that no, she had no other “interest”; she simply did not wish to marry. He believed this to be true, but also feared that it was not; he lacked sufficient experience in the ways of women to read beyond that negative. When he relayed all this to Dona Benedita, she was shocked by the abruptness of her daughter’s refusal; but she quickly recovered her composure and told the priest in no uncertain terms that her daughter had no say in the matter, and that she, Dona Benedita, would do as she wished, and she wanted the marriage.

  “There’s no point even waiting for her father’s reply,” she concluded. “I’ll just tell him that she’s getting married. It’s as simple as that. On Thursday I will dine with Dona Maria dos Anjos, and we will arrange everything.”

  “I must tell you,” ventured the canon, “that Dona Maria dos Anjos does not wish anything to be done by force.”

  “What force? No force is required.”

  The canon reflected for a moment.

  “In any event, we must not overrule any other attachment she may have formed,” he said.

  Dona Benedita made no reply, but inwardly swore that, come what may, her daughter would become the daughter-in-law of Dona Maria dos Anjos. And after the canon had left, she said to herself: “Well, I never! A mere slip of a girl thinking she can rule the roost!”

  Thursday dawned. Eulália, the mere slip of a girl, got out of bed feeling bright and cheerful and chatty, with all the windows of her spirit open to the blue morning air. Her mother awoke to hear a snippet from some glorious Italian melody; it was her daughter singing, happily and blithely, with all the indifference of birds who sing for themselves or for their own offspring, and not for the poet who listens and translates them into the immortal language of mankind. Dona Benedita had secretly cherished the idea of seeing her daughter downhearted and surly, and had expended a certain amount of imagination in deciding how she herself would act, pretending to be strong and forceful. Instead of a rebellious daughter, though, she found her to be talkative and amenable. It was a bad start to the day, like setting out prepared to destroy a fortress and finding instead a peaceful, welcoming city, its gates flung wide, politely inviting her to enter and break the bread of joy and harmony. It was a very bad start to the day.

  The second cause of Dona Benedita’s annoyance was a threatened migraine at three o’clock in the afternoon; a threat, or perhaps a suspicion of the possibility of a threat. She nearly canceled the visit, but her daughter thought it might do her good to go, and, in any event, it was too late to put it off. There was nothing else for it; Dona Benedita took her medicine, and, as she sat before the mirror brushing her hair, she was on the verge of saying that she would definitely stay at home, and she hinted as much to her daughter.

  “But Mama, Dona Maria dos Anjos is expecting you,” Eulália told her.

  “Indeed,” retorted her mother, “but I didn’t promise to go there if I was indisposed.”

  Finally, she got dressed, put on her gloves, and issued her instructions to the servants; her head must have been hurting a lot because she was rather curt with people, like someone being compelled to do something against their will. Her daughter did her best to raise her spirits, reminding her to take her little bottle of smelling salts, urging her to go, saying how eager Dona Maria dos Anjos was to see her, repeatedly checking the little watch pinned to her waist, and so on. She would be really put out.

  “Stop pestering me,” her mother said.

  And off she went, feeling exasperated, fervently wishing she could throttle her daughter, telling herself that daughters were the worst thing in the world. Sons were all right: they grew up and made a career for themselves; but daughters!

  Happily, the meal at Dona Maria dos Anjos’s calmed her down; not that it filled her with great satisfaction, because that wasn’t the case at all. Dona Benedita was not her usual self; she was cold and brusque, or almost brusque; she, however, explained the difference in her own terms, mentioning the threatened migraine, which was not exactly good news, but nevertheless cheered Dona Maria dos Anjos, for this refined and profound reason: it was better that her friend’s coolness was the result of an illness than a diminution in her affections. Moreover, it was nothing grave. And yet grave it was! There were no clasped hands, no loving gazes, no delicate titbits being consumed between fond caresses; in short, it was nothing like the dinner on Sunday. The meal was merely polite, not joyful; that was the most the canon could achieve. Oh, the kind, amiable canon! Eulália’s mood that day filled him with hope; her playful laughter, her easy conversation, her readiness to do as asked, to play and sing, and the tender, agreeable look on her face when she listened and spoke to Leandrinho; all this greatly restored the canon’s hopes. And for Dona Benedita to be indisposed today of all days! It really was bad luck.

  Dona Benedita’s spirits rose somewhat that evening after dinner. She talked a little more, discussed a plan to go for a stroll in the Jardim Botânico, even proposing that they go the very next day. However, Eulália warned her that it would be wise to wait a day or two for the effects of the migraine to wear off completely; and the look she got from her mother in return for her advice was as sharp as a dagger. The daughter had no fear of her mother’s eyes, though. As she brushed her hair that night, thinking over the day’s events, Eulália repeated to herself the words we heard her say, some days before, at the window.

  “This can’t go on.”

  And before sleeping, she smugly pulled open a certain drawer, took out a little box, opened it, and removed a card measuring only about two inches by two—a portrait. It was clearly not the portrait of a woman, not only on account of the mustache, but also the uniform; he was, at the very least, a naval officer. Whether handsome or ugly is a matter of opinion. Eulália thought him handsome, the proof being that she kissed the portrait, not once but three times. Then she gazed at it longingly, and put it back in its box.

  What were you thinking, O strict and cautious mother, that you did not come and tear from the hands and lips of your daughter so subtle and mortal a venom? Standing at her window, Dona
Benedita was gazing up at the night sky, amid the stars and gas lamps, with a roving, restless imagination, and filled with gnawing regrets and desires. Nothing had gone right for her since morning. Dona Benedita confessed, in the sweet intimacy of her own soul, that the dinner at Dona Maria dos Anjos’s had been dreadful, and that her friend probably wasn’t at her best, either. She felt certain regrets—although for what, she wasn’t entirely sure—and certain desires, but for quite what, she didn’t know. From time to time she gave a long, lazy yawn, like someone about to fall asleep; but if she felt anything at all it was boredom—boredom, impatience, and curiosity. Dona Benedita seriously wondered about going to join her husband; and no sooner had the thought of her husband entered her head than her heart was filled with longings and remorse, and her blood pulsed in her veins; so great was her desire to go and see the eminent judge that if her luggage had been packed and the northbound steamer had been waiting at the corner of the street, she would have embarked that very minute. No matter; there was sure to be another steamer in a week or ten days, and there was plenty of time to arrange her luggage. Since she would only be going for three months, she would not need to take very much.

  It would be a relief to get away from Rio, from the sameness of the days, the lack of novelties, the same faces, even the unchanging fashions—something that always troubled her: “Why should any fashion last for more than two weeks?”

  “I’ll go; there’s nothing more to be said. I’ll go to Pará,” she said softly.

  Indeed, the following morning, the first thing she did was to communicate this decision to her daughter, who took the news calmly. Dona Bene­dita checked how many trunks she already had, wondered if she needed one more, calculated the size, and decided to buy another. In a sudden moment of inspiration, Eulália said: