The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  Z: And yet he enjoyed society.

  A: He did, but he had no love for its members. One day, a friend of ours, a chap called Pires, made precisely that same comment to him, and do you know what he said? He replied with a parable, in which each member of society was a gourd of water, whereas society was a bathtub. “And I cannot bathe in a gourd of water,” was his conclusion.

  Z: So not a modest fellow, then. What did Pires say to him?

  A: Pires thought it such a lovely image that, some time later, he included it in one of his comedies. The funny thing is that Xavier heard it at the theater and applauded it warmly, enthusiastically even; he had completely forgotten that he was its father, but blood obviously called to blood. Which brings me to an explanation of Xavier’s present impoverished state.

  Z: Indeed. I don’t know how you can explain that a nabob—

  A: It’s not that difficult, actually. He scattered ideas right, left, and center, as easily as the rain falls from the sky, through sheer physical necessity, and for two reasons in particular. Firstly, he was impatient and could not endure the long gestation period required by a piece of written work. Secondly, his eyes surveyed so vast a horizon that he struggled to fix upon any one thing in particular. If he hadn’t been so fluent verbally, he would have suffered from mental constipation; words, for him, acted as a purgative. The pages he spoke, the chapters that gushed from his lips, needed only to be printed in the air and then onto paper to make truly excellent, even admirable, publications. Not everything was crystal clear, but the crystal-clear portion always exceeded the murkier part, and, after all, even Homer occasionally nods. He sowed his seeds at random, in whole handfuls, not even noticing where the seeds fell, and some sprang up quickly . . .

  Z: Like the one about the gourds.

  A: Yes, like the one about the gourds. But, the sower had a passion for beautiful things, and, as long as the tree was lush and green, he never asked the tree what seed it had sprung from. And so he lived for many years, spending freely and fruitlessly, by day and by night, in the street or at home, with no thought for the cost, a genuine spendthrift. Given such a regime, which was, in fact, the total absence of any regime, it’s no wonder that he should end up wretched and poor. Imagination and spirit have their limits, my friend; apart from the mountebank’s famously bottomless bottle and mankind’s credulity, I know of nothing inexhaustible under the sun. Xavier not only lost all the ideas he’d had, he even exhausted his ability to create new ones; he became the man we know today. What rare coin does one ever see in his hands now? What sesterce by Horace? What Periclean drama? Nothing. He fritters away his commonplaces, worn thin by other hands, eats at the communal table, has, in short, become trivial, futile—

  Z: A gourd, in other words.

  A: Precisely. A gourd.

  Z: Well, this is a lot to take in. I knew nothing about it. But I’m fully informed now. Goodbye.

  A: Do you have business to attend to?

  Z: I do have some business to attend to.

  A: Can you give me ten minutes?

  Z: I can give you fifteen.

  A: I want to tell you about the most interesting part of Xavier’s life. Take my arm and we’ll walk a little. Are you going to the main square? Let’s go together. Yes, a most interesting case. It was back in 1869 or 1870, I can’t remember which; it was he himself who told me. He had lost everything; his brain was spent, sucked dry, sterile, without so much as a shadow of an idea or an image, nothing. Suffice it to say that, one day, he called a lady a rose, “a pretty rose”; he talked of wistful moonlight, of the priesthood of the press, and of sumptuous banquets, without adding anything original to all that trite junk from the tinker’s cart. He became a hypochondriac. Then, one day, standing at the window, sad and disillusioned, seeing how his life had come to naught, a dandy on horseback happened to pass by in the street. Suddenly the horse bucked and nearly threw the dandy to the ground, but the man managed to hold on, and dug in his spurs and plied his whip. The horse reared, but still the rider hung on; people stood watching from the street or from their doorways; after ten minutes’ struggle, the horse gave in and walked on. The spectators were full of wonder and admiration at the horseman’s elegance, courage, sangfroid, and skill. Then Xavier thought to himself that perhaps the gentleman hadn’t been brave at all. That he simply hadn’t wanted to fall off in front of all those people, and it was his fear of humiliation that had given him the strength to master the horse. And from this came an idea: he compared life to an unbroken or skittish horse; and added sententiously: “Even if you’re not a rider, you should at least look like one.” It wasn’t such an extraordinary idea, but Xavier’s penury had reached such extremes that this crystal seemed to him a diamond. He repeated it a dozen or so times, formulating it in various ways; first of all in its natural word order, with the definition followed by the complement, then putting it the other way around, changing the words, getting the measure of them, etc., and he felt as happy as a pig in clover. That night, he dreamt that he was indeed riding a skittish horse, which reared up and threw him into a bog. He awoke feeling sad; the morning, which was a rainy Sunday, made him feel even sadder; he sat down to read and to brood. Then he remembered something . . . Do you know the story of Polycrates’s ring?

  Z: I’m afraid I don’t.

  A: Nor did I, but here’s what Xavier told me. Polycrates was the ruler of the island of Samos. He was the happiest king on Earth, so happy that he began to fear that Fortune might turn against him, and, to placate her in advance, he decided to make her a great offering: he would throw into the sea the ring which, according to some, he used as his seal. And that is what he did; but Fortune was so busy garlanding him with favors that the ring was swallowed by a fish, and the fish was caught by a fisherman and sent to the kitchens of the king, who thus regained possession of the ring. I make no claims for this little tale; it was Xavier who told me it, quoting Pliny, quoting—

  Z: Say no more. Xavier was obviously comparing life, not to a horse, but—

  A: No, nothing like that. You cannot imagine the bizarre plan the poor devil had dreamed up. “Let’s try our hand at fortune,” he said; “let’s see if my idea, thrown into the sea, will come back to me like Polycrates’s ring in the belly of a fish, or if my bad luck is such that I will never again lay my hands upon it.”

  Z: How extraordinary!

  A: Bizarre, isn’t it? Polycrates had put his happiness to the test; Xavier wanted to do the same with his bad luck. Different intentions, identical actions. He left his house, met a friend, struck up a conversation, chose any old subject, and ended his sentence by saying that life was an unbroken or skittish horse, and that even if you’re not a rider, you should at least look like one. Spoken like that, the phrase may perhaps have fallen rather flat; for this reason, Xavier was careful to describe, first, his sadness, his years of disappointments and frustrations, or, rather, the effects of reckless imprudence, and then, when the fish’s mouth was wide open, that is to say, when his friend’s distress at this sorry tale had reached its peak, that was when Xavier tossed him the ring, and fled back home. What I am telling you is entirely natural and believable, and certainly not impossible. But, at this point, reality and imagination begin to merge. Whatever the truth of the matter, I am merely repeating what he told me. Around three weeks later, Xavier was dining quietly at the Golden Lion or the Globe, I’m not sure which, and at the next table he heard someone repeat his very words, with perhaps an adjective or two changed. “My poor ring,” he said to himself, “there you are inside Polycrates’s fish.” But the idea took flight and flew away, without him being able to keep it in his memory. He resigned himself to this. A few days later, he was invited to a ball by an old acquaintance from his youth, who was celebrating his recent elevation to the nobility. Xavier accepted the invitation and went to the ball, and it is just as well that he did, because between the ice cream and the tea he overheard a group of people praising the baron’s career and prosperous, up
standing, exemplary life; and he heard them compare the baron to an expert rider. General astonishment all around, because the baron did not ride.

  But the panegyrist explained that life is nothing more than an unbroken or skittish horse, and that one must either be an excellent rider, or at least look like one, and the baron excelled at the latter. “Come, my dear ring,” said Xavier, “come to Polycrates’s finger.” But once again the idea flapped its wings and flew away, ignoring him. A few days later—

  Z: I can guess the rest: a series of similar encounters and similar escapes.

  A: Exactly.

  Z. But, finally, one day, he caught it.

  A: Just once, and it was then that he told me about the incident that was truly worthy of being remembered. He was so happy that day! He swore to me that he would write it up as a fantastic tale, in the manner of Edgar Allan Poe, a glittering page punctuated with mysteries—those were his very words. And he asked me to come and see him the following day. I went. The ring had escaped him once again. “My dear A,” he said, with a knowing, sarcastic smile, “you see before you the Polycrates of bad luck; I nominate you my honorary and unpaid minister of state.” From then on, it was always the same. Whenever he thought he’d caught the idea, it flapped its wings, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, and disappeared into the air, like figures in a dream. Another fish swallowed it and brought it back, with always the same outcome. But let me tell you just three more of the incidents he told me about that day—

  Z: I can’t. Our fifteen minutes are up.

  A: Just three, I promise you. One day, Xavier came to believe that he would, at last, be able to catch the fugitive, and fix it forever in his brain. He opened an opposition newspaper and was astonished to read these words: “The government seems entirely unaware that politics is, like life itself, an unbroken or skittish horse, and, since it is unable to be a good rider, it should at least look like one.”

  “Ah! At last!” exclaimed Xavier. “There you are, trapped in the belly of the fish; you won’t escape me now.” But in vain. The idea did indeed escape, leaving behind it only a vague recollection. Cast down and despairing, he began to walk and walk until night fell. When he passed a theater, he decided to go in; the sight of all those bright lights, all that jollity, soothed his spirits. Not only was it a new comedy; it was by his friend Pires. He sat down beside the playwright and applauded enthusiastically, with the sincere love of an artist and a brother. During the second act, scene VIII, a shudder ran through him. “Dona Eugênia,” said the leading man to a lady, “the horse may be compared to life, which is also unbroken and skittish; he who is not a good rider must take care to look like one.” The playwright glanced timidly at Xavier to judge the effect of this idea on his friend; meanwhile, Xavier was repeating the same pleading words: “My dear, dear ring . . .”

  Z: Et nunc et semper . . . Come on, let’s hear the last encounter; it’s time I went.

  A: The last was the first. As I mentioned, Xavier had originally told this idea to a friend. One week after that night at the theater, the friend fell so gravely ill that within four days he was at death’s door.

  Xavier rushed to see him; the poor fellow, still able to recognize him, reached out one cold and trembling hand, fixed him with the long, dull gaze of a dying man, and, in a faint voice, like an echo from the grave, sobbed: “I’m slipping away, my dearest Xavier, the unbroken, skittish horse of life has thrown me to the ground: whether I was a bad rider or not I cannot say, but I tried to look like a good one.” Don’t laugh; he was in tears when he told me this. He also told me that the idea fluttered for a few minutes more over the corpse, with its glittering, beautiful wings made of the crystal he had once believed to be a diamond, then it let out a faint derisory chuckle, ungrateful and patricidal, and flew away as it had before, lodging itself in the minds of those friends of the household gathered around, racked with grief, and who sadly took in the dead man’s pious legacy. Farewell.

  THE LOAN

  I’M GOING TO TELL YOU an anecdote, an anecdote in the true sense of the word, which common usage has since broadened out to include any brief, invented tale. This anecdote happens to be true: I can cite several people who know it as well as I do. Nor would it have remained hidden from view had some tranquil soul been capable of discerning its philosophical implications. As you know, everything has a philosophical meaning. Carlyle discovered the philosophy of vests, or, rather, of clothes, and everyone knows that numbers were used in the Pythagorean system long before the Ipiranga lottery. For my part, I think I have deciphered the meaning behind this tale of a loan; you will see if I am mistaken.

  To begin with, let us amend what Seneca said. In the eyes of that stern moralist, every day is, in itself, a singular life; in other words, a life within life. I wouldn’t disagree with that, but why did he not add that often a single hour can encapsulate a whole life? Observe this young man: he enters the world with great ambitions: a ministerial portfolio perhaps, his own bank, a viscount’s coronet, a bishop’s crozier. At fifty, we will find him working as a lowly customs inspector, or as a sacristan in some country parish. This transformation took place over a period of thirty years, and no doubt a Balzac could have fit it all into a mere three hundred pages; so why shouldn’t life, which was, after all, Balzac’s teacher, squeeze it into thirty or sixty minutes?

  Four o’clock had struck in the office of the notary Vaz Nunes, in Rua do Rosário. The clerks had put the final flourishes to their documents, and wiped their goose quills on the piece of black silk hanging from one of the drawers; then they had closed the drawers, gathered up their papers, tidied away their books and registers, and washed their hands; those who had changed their jackets on arriving took off their work coat and put on their outdoor one, and then they all left. Vaz Nunes remained alone.

  This honest notary was one of the most perceptive men of his day. He has since died, so we can praise him all we like. He had eyes like a lancet, cutting and sharp. He could read the characters of the people who came to him to notarize their contracts and agreements; he knew a testator’s soul long before he had finished his will; he could scent secret plots and hidden thoughts. He wore glasses, as do all stage notaries, but, not being nearsighted, he would peer over them when he wanted to see, and through them if he preferred not to be seen. Crafty old fox, said the clerks. He was, in any event, a circumspect fellow. He was fifty years old, a childless widower, and, in the words of some of his fellow notaries, he was quietly nibbling his way through the two hundred contos de réis he had salted away.

  “Who’s there?” he asked suddenly, looking up.

  Standing in the doorway was a man whom he did not immediately recognize and whom he only barely recognized afterward. Vaz Nunes invited him in; the man entered, greeted him, shook his hand, and sat down on the chair beside the desk. He did not carry himself with the customary awkwardness of a beggar; on the contrary, he gave every impression of having come with the sole purpose of giving the notary some very precious and rare commodity. Vaz Nunes nevertheless shuddered and waited.

  “Don’t you remember me?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “We were with each other one night a few months ago, in Tijuca. Don’t you remember? In Teodorico’s house, at that magnificent Christmas Eve supper. As a matter of fact, I proposed a toast to you. Surely you remember old Custódio!”

  “Ah!”

  Custódio sat up straighter, having been sitting somewhat slumped. He was a man of about forty. Poorly dressed, but well groomed, neat, and very correct. He had long nails, neatly trimmed, and his hands were slender and soft, unlike the skin on his face, which was somewhat lined. Minor details, but necessary to illustrate a certain duality in the man, an air of being both a beggar and a general. Walking down the street with no breakfast and not a penny in his pocket, he behaved as if he were marching at the head of an army. The reason was none other than the contrast between nature and situation, between soul and life. Custódio had been born with a vocation
to be wealthy, but with no vocation for work. He had an instinct for elegance, a love of excess, good food, beautiful ladies, luxuriant carpets, exquisite furniture, a voluptuary (and, up to a point, an artist) capable of running the Villa Torlonia or the Hamilton Gallery. But he had no money; neither money nor the aptitude or patience to earn it. And yet, on the other hand, he needed to live. Il faut bien que je vive, a man in search of a favor once said to Talleyrand. Je n’en vois pas la nécessité, the minister replied coldly. Nobody gave this answer to Custódio; they gave him money instead—someone would give him ten mil-réis, another would give five, another twenty, and it was principally from such small donations that he paid his bed and board.

  I say “principally,” because Custódio did not hold back from involving himself in various business deals, but always on condition that he could choose them, and he always chose the ones that were doomed to fail. He had an excellent nose for disasters. From among twenty businesses, he could immediately pluck the most foolhardy, and would plunge in resolutely. The bad luck that pursued him would ensure that the other nineteen would prosper, while the one he chose would blow up in his face. No matter; he would pick himself up and get ready for the next.

  He had, for example, recently read an advertisement in the paper seeking a business partner willing to invest five contos de réis in a certain enterprise that promised, within the first six months, to return a profit of between eighty and a hundred contos. Custódio went to meet the person who had placed the advertisement. It was a great idea: a needle factory, a brand-new business with an exciting future. And the plans, the design of the factory, the reports from Birmingham, the lists of imports, the replies from tailors and haberdashers and other such merchants, all swam before Custódio’s eyes, dazzled by figures he could not understand, and which, for that very reason, appeared to be the gospel truth. Twenty-four hours; he asked for twenty-four hours to find the five contos. And he left the place, flattered and fawned upon by the advertiser, who, still standing on the doorstep, continued to deluge him with a torrent of credit and debit balances. But the five contos—five thousand mil-réis, no less—proved less biddable or less fickle than a mere five mil-réis, shaking their heads incredulously and keeping to their coffers, paralyzed by fear and sleep. Not one penny. The eight or ten friends he spoke to all told him they didn’t have that amount of money available, nor did they have any faith in the factory. He had just about lost all hope when he happened to find himself in Rua do Rosário and saw the name Vaz Nunes above the doorway of a notary’s office. His heart leapt with joy, remembering Tijuca, the notary’s impeccable manners, the kind words with which he responded to the toast, and he said to himself that here was the man to save the situation.