“There’s a line in a play that might explain the affair, a line from Augier, I believe: ‘nostalgia for the gutter.’ ”
“I think not, but keep on listening. At about ten o’clock, Marocas’s maid, a freed slave, who was very attached to her mistress, turned up at my house. She was desperately looking for Andrade, because Marocas, after locking herself in her room in floods of tears, had left the house without her dinner and hadn’t returned. I had to restrain Andrade, whose first impulse was to race off after her. The maid begged us to find her mistress. ‘Doesn’t she usually go out?’ asked Andrade sarcastically. But the maid said that, no, it wasn’t usual at all. ‘Did you hear that?’ he shouted at me. Once again, hope had seized the poor devil’s heart. ‘What about yesterday?’ I asked. The maid answered that, yes, she had gone out yesterday; I stopped asking her questions out of pity for Andrade, who was growing more and more distressed, and whose wounded pride was gradually receding in the face of this impending danger. We went out to search for Marocas; we went to all the houses where we might possibly find her, and to the police, but without success. In the morning, we returned to the police station. Andrade was friends with the station chief or one of his deputies (I can’t remember which), and told him the relevant details of the affair; in any case, Andrade’s relationship with Marocas was already well known to all his friends. Every possibility was looked into; no accidents had occurred during the night; none of the boatmen down at Praia Grande had seen any ferry passengers falling overboard; the gunsmiths had sold no firearms and the apothecaries no poison. The police deployed all their resources, but came up with nothing. I won’t tell you what a state poor Andrade was in during those long hours, for the whole day was spent in futile investigations. It wasn’t only the pain of losing her; there were his feelings of guilt or remorse or doubt when faced with a possible disaster that seemed in itself to exonerate the young woman. He kept saying to me, over and over, that surely it was only natural to react as he had done in the delirium of indignation, and wouldn’t I have done the same? But then he would once again reassert her guilt, and prove it to me as vehemently as he had tried to prove her innocence the night before; he kept trying to adjust reality to his shifting sentiments.”
“But did you eventually find Marocas?”
“We were having something to eat at a hotel—it was nearly eight o’clock—when we got news of a possible lead: the previous evening, a coachman had taken a lady out in the direction of the Jardim Botânico. When she got there, she went into a boardinghouse, and stayed there. We didn’t even finish our dinner—we took the very same coach in the same direction. The owner of the boardinghouse confirmed the coachman’s version of events, adding that the person in question had retired to her room and hadn’t eaten anything since arriving yesterday; she had asked only for a cup of coffee, and seemed in very low spirits. We made our way up to her room, and the owner knocked on the door; she answered in a feeble voice and opened the door. Before I could say anything, Andrade pushed me aside, and the two of them fell into each other’s arms. Marocas shed copious tears, then fainted.”
“Did she explain everything?”
“Not at all. Neither of them even spoke of it; having survived the shipwreck, they had no wish to know anything about the storm that had all but sunk them. The reconciliation was almost instantaneous. A few months later, Andrade bought her a little house in Catumbi; Marocas gave him a son, who died at the age of two. When Andrade was sent north on government business, their affection was still as strong, even if their passion no longer burned with the same intensity. Nevertheless, she wanted to go with him and it was I who obliged her to stay. Andrade intended to return a short time later but, as I think I told you, he died in the provinces. Marocas felt his death deeply, went into mourning, and considered herself a widow; I know that for the first three years she always went to mass on the anniversary of his death. Ten years ago, I completely lost sight of her. So what do you make of it all?”
“I suppose some very strange things really do happen, always assuming that you haven’t taken advantage of my youthful naïveté by making the whole thing up . . .”
“I haven’t made anything up; it really did happen.”
“And yet, sir, it’s certainly very odd. In the midst of all that burning, genuine passion . . . No, I’m sticking to my guns; I think it was nostalgia for the gutter.”
“No. Marocas had never stooped as low as the Leandros of this world.”
“Then why did she do so on that particular night?”
“She presumed there was a gaping social chasm separating him from anyone who might know her; that’s what made her so sure of herself. But she did not allow for coincidence, which is a god and a devil rolled into one . . . Well, strange things happen!”
POSTHUMOUS PICTURE GALLERY
I
THE DEATH OF Joaquim Fidélis caused indescribable consternation throughout the suburb of Engenho Velho, and particularly in the hearts of his dearest friends. It was so unexpected. He was in fine fettle, had an iron constitution, and, the very night before he passed away, had been attending a ball where he had been seen happily chatting away. He had even danced, at the request of a lady in her sixties, the widow of a friend of his, who took him by the arm and said:
“Come on, then, let’s show these youngsters that their elders still know a thing or two!”
Joaquim Fidélis protested with a smile, but did as he was told and danced. It was two o’clock in the morning when he left, wrapping his sixty years in a warm winter cape (for it was June 1879), covering his bald head with the hood, lighting a cigar, and hopping nimbly into his carriage.
He may well have nodded off in the carriage, but, once home, despite the late hour and his heavy eyelids, he went to his desk, opened a drawer, took out one of many notebooks, and, in three or four minutes, wrote some ten or eleven lines. His last words were these: “Altogether a vile ball; some aging reveler forced me to dance a quadrille with her; at the door, a dark-skinned country bumpkin asked me for a present. Simply vile!” He put the notebook back in the drawer, undressed, got into bed, fell asleep, and died.
Yes, indeed, the news dismayed the whole neighborhood. So beloved was he, with his fine manners and his ability to be able to talk to anyone; he could be educated with the educated, ignorant with the ignorant, boyish with the boys, even girlish with the girls. And then, most obligingly, he was always ready to write letters, speak to friends, patch up quarrels, or lend money. In the evenings, a handful of close acquaintances from Engenho Velho, and sometimes other parts of the city, would gather in his house to play ombre or whist and discuss politics. Joaquim Fidélis had been a member of the Chamber of Deputies until its dissolution by the Marquis of Olinda in 1863. Unable to get reelected, he abandoned public life. He was a conservative, a label he had difficulty in accepting because it sounded to him like a political Gallicism. He preferred to be called one of the “Saquarema Set.” But he gave it all up, and it seems that, in recent times, he detached himself first from the party, and, eventually, from the party’s politics. There are reasons to believe that, from a certain point onward, he was merely a profound skeptic.
He was a wealthy and educated man. He had qualified as a lawyer in 1842. Now he did nothing, but read a great deal. There were no women in his house. Widowed after the first outbreak of yellow fever, he refused to countenance a second marriage, to the great sorrow of three or four ladies, who for some time had hopes in that regard. One of them perfidiously managed to make her beautiful 1845 ringlets last until well after her second grandchild was born; another younger woman, also a widow, thought she could hold on to him with concessions that were as generous as they were irretrievable. “My dear Leocádia,” he would say whenever she hinted at a marital solution, “why don’t we carry on just as we are? Mystery is what gives life its charm.” He lived with a nephew called Benjamin, the orphaned son of one of his sisters who had died when the child was still very young. Joaquim Fidélis brough
t him up and made him study hard, so much so that the boy graduated with a law degree in the year of 1877.
Benjamin was utterly dumbfounded. He could not bring himself to believe that his uncle was dead. He rushed to his bedroom, found the corpse lying in bed, cold, eyes wide open, and a faintly ironic curl to the left-hand corner of his mouth. He wept profusely. He was losing not just a relative but a father, a tenderhearted, dedicated father, one of a kind. Finally, Benjamin wiped away his tears and, since it upset him to see the dead man’s eyes open and his lip curled, he rectified both defects. Thus death took on a more tragic but less original expression.
“No! I don’t believe it!” cried Diogo Vilares, one of the neighbors, shortly after hearing the news.
Diogo Vilares was one of Joaquim Fidélis’s five closest friends. He owed to him the job he had held since 1857. Diogo was followed by the four others in quick succession, all speechless and unable to believe what had happened. The first was Elias Xavier, who had obtained a knighthood, thanks, it was said, to the deceased’s timely intervention; then came João Brás, another deputy who, under the rather peculiar rules of the time, had been elected to the Chamber thanks to Joaquim Fidélis’s influence. Last of all came Fragoso and Galdino, who, in lieu of diplomas, knighthoods, or jobs, owed him other favors instead. Fidélis had advanced Galdino a small amount of capital, and had arranged a good marriage for Fragoso. And now he was dead! Gone forever! Standing around the bed, they gazed at his serene face and recalled their last get-together the previous Sunday, so intimate and yet so jolly! And, even more recently, the night before last, when their customary game of ombre had lasted until eleven o’clock.
“Don’t come tomorrow,” Joaquim Fidélis had said to them. “I’m going to Carvalhinho’s ball.”
“And after that?”
“I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.”
And, as they left, he gave each of them a box of excellent cigars, as he sometimes did, with a little bag of sweets for the children and two or three fine jokes . . . All lost! Vanished! Gone!
Many persons of note came to the funeral: two senators, a former minister, a few noblemen, wealthy businessmen, lawyers, merchants, and doctors; but the coffin was carried by Benjamin and those five close friends. None of them would yield this honor to anyone, considering it their final and inalienable duty. The graveside eulogy was given by João Brás; it was a touching address, slightly too polished for such an unexpected event, but nonetheless excusable. When everyone had deposited their shovelful of earth on the coffin, the mourners slowly slipped away from the graveside, apart from those six, who stayed to oversee the gravediggers as they went indifferently about their work. They stayed there until the grave had been filled to the very top and the funeral wreaths laid out upon it.
II
The seventh-day mass brought them together again at the church. When the mass was over, the five friends accompanied the deceased man’s nephew home. Benjamin invited them to stay for breakfast.
“I hope that Uncle Joaquim’s friends will also be my friends,” he said.
They went in and, while they ate, they talked about the dead man, each one recounting some story, some witty remark; they were unanimous in their praise and fond regrets. Since each of them had asked for a little memento of the deceased, when they finished breakfast they all went through into his study and chose something: an old pen, a glasses case, a little pamphlet, or some other personal token. Benjamin felt greatly consoled. He informed them that he intended to keep the study exactly as it was. He hadn’t even opened the desk yet. He did so then, and, with the others, drew up a list of the contents of some of the drawers. There were letters, loose papers, concert programs, menus from grand dinners; all of it in an enormous muddle. Among other things they found some notebooks, numbered and dated.
“A diary!” exclaimed Benjamin.
It was indeed a diary of the deceased’s thoughts and impressions, a sort of collection of secret memories and confidences that the man had shared only with himself. The friends were greatly moved and excited; reading them would be just like conversing with Joaquim again. Such an upright character! And the soul of discretion! Benjamin began reading, but his voice broke, and João Brás had to carry on.
Their interest in what they heard soothed the pain of death. It was a book worthy of being published. It was filled with political and social observations, philosophical reflections, anecdotes about public men such as Feijó and Vasconcelos, others of a rather racier nature, the names of ladies, among them Leocádia’s; an entire repertoire of events and comments. They all admired the dead man’s talent, his graceful style, and the fascinating subject matter. Some were in favor of having it printed; Benjamin agreed, on condition that they excluded any elements that might be unsavory or excessively personal. And they continued reading, skipping whole sections and pages, until the clock struck noon. They all stood up. Diogo Vilares had been due at his office hours ago; João Brás and Elias also had to be elsewhere. Galdino went off to his shop. Fragoso had to change out of his black clothes and take his wife shopping on Rua do Ouvidor. They agreed to meet again and continue their reading. Some of the details had given them an itch for scandal, and itches need to be scratched, which is precisely what they intended to do, by reading.
“Until tomorrow, then,” they said.
“Yes, until tomorrow.”
Once he was alone, Benjamin carried on reading the manuscript. Among other things, he marveled at the portrayal of the Widow Leocádia, a masterpiece of painstaking observation, even though the date coincided with the time when they were still lovers. It was proof of a rare impartiality. The deceased, it turned out, was a master of portraits. The notebooks were full of them, stretching back to 1873 or 1874; some were sketches of the living, others of the dead, some were of public men like Paula Sousa, Aureliano, Olinda, etc. They were brief and to the point, sometimes only three or four lines, drawn with such confident fidelity and perfection that the image seemed almost like a photograph. Benjamin carried on reading. Suddenly he came across Diogo Vilares, about whom he read the following:
DIOGO VILARES—I have referred to this friend many times and will do so yet again, provided he doesn’t kill me with boredom, a field in which I consider him a true professional. Many years ago, he asked me to get him a job and I did. He did not warn me of the currency in which he would repay me. Such singular gratitude! He went so far as to compose a sonnet and publish it. He wouldn’t stop talking about the favor I’d done him, paying me endless compliments; finally, though, he relented. Later on, we became more closely acquainted. I got to know him even better. C’est le genre ennuyeux. Not a bad partner at ombre, though. They tell me he owes nothing to anyone. A good family man. Stupid and credulous. Within the space of four days, I’ve heard him describe a government as both excellent and detestable, depending on who he is speaking to. He laughs a lot and usually inappropriately. When they meet him for the first time, everyone begins by assuming he is a serious fellow; by the second day, they snap their fingers at him. The reason is his face, or, more particularly, his cheeks, which lend him a certain air of superiority.
Benjamin’s first reaction was that he’d had a lucky escape. What if Diogo Vilares had been there? He reread the description and could scarcely believe it. But there was no denying it: the name was definitely Diogo Vilares and it was written in his uncle’s own hand. And he wasn’t the only friend mentioned, either; he flicked through the manuscript and came across Elias:
ELIAS XAVIER—This Elias is a subordinate fellow, destined to serve someone, and serve him smugly, like a coachman to a fashionable household. He vulgarly treats my personal visits with a certain arrogance and disdain: the policy of an ambitious lackey. From the first weeks I knew him, I realized that he wanted to make himself my intimate friend, and I also understood that on the day he really became one, he would throw all the others out in the street. There are times when he calls me to one side to talk to me secretly about the weather. His
aim is clearly to instill in the others a suspicion that there are private matters between us, and he achieves precisely this, because all the others bow and scrape before him. He is intelligent, good-humored, and refined. He’s an excellent conversationalist. I don’t know anyone with a sharper intellect. He is neither cowardly nor slanderous. He only speaks ill of someone when his own interests are at stake; when such interests are absent, he holds his tongue, whereas true slander is gratuitous. He is dedicated and persuasive. He has no ideas, it’s true, but that’s the difference between him and Diogo Vilares: Diogo simply parrots the ideas he hears, whereas Elias knows how to make them his own and choose the opportune moment to introduce them into the conversation. An event in 1865 provides a good illustration of the man’s shrewdness. He was due to be granted a knighthood by the government for providing some freed slaves for the war in Paraguay. He had no need of me, but he came to see me on two or three occasions, with a dismayed and pleading air, to ask me to intercede on his behalf. I spoke to the minister, who told me: “Elias knows the document has already been drafted and only awaits the Emperor’s signature.” I understood then that this was simply a way of showing how deeply indebted he was to me. A good partner at whist; a touch quarrelsome, but he knows what he’s doing.
“Well, really, Uncle Joaquim!” exclaimed Benjamin, getting to his feet. A few moments later, he thought to himself: “Here I am reading the unpublished book of his heart. I only knew the public edition, revised and expurgated. This is the original, internal text, exact and authentic. But who would have thought it of Uncle Joaquim!”
The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis Page 60
