The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  It was around this time that Rita, feeling fearful and suspicious, went off to consult the fortune-teller about the real reason for Camilo’s behavior. As we have seen, the fortune-teller entirely restored Rita’s faith in Camilo, and Camilo scolded her for going there in the first place. Several weeks went by. Camilo received two or three more anonymous letters, so passionate that they could not be considered mere sanctimonious warnings, but rather the bitter outpourings of a rival. That was Rita’s view, and she, somewhat less succinctly, formulated the following thought: “Virtue is niggardly and lazy, wasting neither paper nor time; only self-interest is spendthrift and diligent.”

  Not that this was of any comfort to Camilo; he feared the anonymous letter-writer would go to Vilela, and then catastrophe would be inevitable. Rita agreed that this was a possibility.

  “Very well, then,” she said, “I will take the envelopes home with me and compare them to the handwriting on every letter that arrives. If any arrive bearing the same handwriting, I’ll tear them up.”

  No such letters appeared, but shortly afterward, Vilela grew suddenly somber and taciturn, as if he suspected something. Rita rushed to tell Camilo, and they pondered what to do. Rita felt that Camilo should begin visiting their house again and sound out her husband: it might well be that Vilela would confide in him some business matter that was troubling him. Camilo disagreed: appearing suddenly after so many months would only confirm any suspicion or accusation. Better to lie low and forgo each other’s company for a few weeks. They agreed on how they would communicate in case of necessity, and separated tearfully.

  The following day, at the department, Camilo received the following note from Vilela: “Come to our house immediately; I need to speak to you at once.” It was already after midday. Camilo did not hesitate, but once in the street, it occurred to him that it would have been more natural for Vilela to summon him to his office—why to his house? Everything indicated that something grave had happened, and, although he may have been imagining it, the handwriting did look shaky. He put all this together with what Rita had told him the previous day.

  “Come to our house immediately; I need to speak to you at once,” he repeated to himself, his eyes fixed on the piece of paper.

  In his imagination he sketched the climactic scene of a drama: Rita tearful and defeated, Vilela angrily grabbing his pen and scribbling the note, certain that Camilo would come, then sitting there waiting to kill him. Camilo shuddered. He felt afraid, but then he smiled through clenched teeth and carried on walking, for he found the idea of retreating utterly repugnant. On the way, it occurred to him to call in at home first—there might be a message from Rita explaining everything. There was no message and no messenger. Back in the street, the notion that they had been discovered seemed to him ever more plausible; the most likely thing was an anonymous informer, maybe even the same person who had threatened him previously. Perhaps Vilela knew everything. Calling off his visits, on only the flimsiest of pretexts, would only have confirmed what he now knew.

  Camilo carried on walking, anxious and agitated. He didn’t read the note again, but he knew the words by heart, they were there before his eyes, or, worse still, he could hear them whispered in his ear, in Vilela’s own voice. “Come to our house immediately; I need to speak to you at once.” Spoken like that, in the other man’s voice, they had an air of mystery and menace. Come immediately—but why? It was nearly one o’clock. His agitation was growing by the minute. So vivid was his imagination of what would happen that he came to believe it and even see it there before him. By now he really was afraid. He began to think about taking a gun, since if it turned out there was no reason to worry he would still have nothing to lose, and it would be a sensible precaution. However, he quickly dismissed the idea, annoyed with himself for even thinking of it, and carried on, walking more quickly as he approached the cab rank in Largo da Carioca. He climbed in and told the driver to set off at full speed.

  “The sooner I get it over with, the better,” he thought. “I can’t go on like this . . .”

  But the horse’s steady trotting only served to discomfit him further. Time was flying and very soon he would find himself face-to-face with danger. Almost at the end of Rua da Guarda Velha, the cab came to a halt, because the street was blocked by an overturned cart. Camilo privately welcomed the obstruction and waited. After five minutes, he noticed that just a few steps away, on the left-hand side of the street, stood the house of the fortune-teller—the same one Rita had once consulted. Never before had he wished so fervently to believe in what the cards had said. He looked up at the windows of the house, all firmly shut, while every other window in the street was flung wide and crammed with curious onlookers. It appeared every bit the home of indifferent Fate.

  Camilo leaned back in his seat, not wanting to see any more. He was by now extraordinarily agitated, and rising up from the innermost depths of his moral being came his old beliefs and superstitions, the ghosts of times gone by. The cabdriver suggested they turn around and take the first side street; he, however, said he would rather wait, and again leaned forward to look up at the house. Then he made an incredulous gesture, unable to believe the thought that had just occurred to him, namely, the idea of consulting the fortune-teller, an idea that flapped past him in the far distance on vast gray wings, disappearing, then reappearing, and once again fading from view; then, moments later, the wings flapped past him again, this time circling ever closer . . . In the street, men were shouting as they struggled to move the cart:

  “Push! Push! Keep going!”

  Soon the obstruction would be cleared. Camilo closed his eyes, his mind on other things, but the voice of Rita’s husband was whispering the words of the letter in his ear. “Come immediately . . .” And, trembling, he could see before him the twists and turns of the unfolding drama. The house was looking at him. His legs wanted to get out of the cab and go in. Camilo found himself confronted by a long, heavy veil; his mind rapidly reviewed the many things in life that defy explanation. His mother’s voice gave him a long litany of extraordinary events, and that same saying of the Prince of Denmark echoed inside him: “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” What did he have to lose . . . ?

  He found himself on the sidewalk, outside the street door. He told the cabdriver to wait, darted into the hallway and went up the stairs. There was little light, the steps were badly worn, and the handrail sticky, but he didn’t see or feel any of these things. He continued on up and knocked. When no one answered, he considered leaving, but it was too late, curiosity was beating in his veins, and his temples throbbed; he knocked again, once, twice, three times. A woman came; it was the fortune-teller. Camilo said he had come to consult her and she ushered him in. They went up to the attic, by way of a staircase even darker and more decrepit than the last. Upstairs there was a small room, poorly lit by a single window that looked out over the backs of the houses. The shabby furniture, stained walls, and the general air of poverty all served to increase rather than destroy the power and mystery of the place.

  The fortune-teller told him to sit down at the table, while she sat on the other side with her back to the window, so that what little light entered the room fell on Camilo’s face. She opened a drawer and took out a deck of long, grubby, dog-eared cards. As she rapidly shuffled the cards, she was studying him, not directly, but furtively from beneath heavy eyelids. She was a woman of about forty, an Italian, thin and swarthy, with large, sly, astute eyes. She turned over three cards on the table and said:

  “First, we shall see what has brought you here. You are very afraid . . .” Camilo nodded in amazement.

  “And you want to know,” she continued, “whether or not something will happen to you . . .”

  “To me and to her,” he explained enthusiastically.

  The fortune-teller did not smile; she simply told him to wait. She scooped up the cards and shuffled them again with her long tapering fingers, their nail
s untrimmed and neglected. She shuffled the cards thoroughly and cut the pack once, twice, three times; then she began to lay them out. Camilo watched her with anxious, curious eyes

  “The cards tell me . . .”

  Camilo leaned forward to drink in her words one by one. She told him he had nothing to fear. Nothing would happen to either of them; the third party suspected nothing. It was nevertheless vital to exercise caution, for there was much simmering envy and resentment. She spoke of the love that bound them, of Rita’s beauty . . . Camilo was amazed. The fortune-teller finished, gathered up the cards, and locked them away in the drawer.

  “You have restored my peace of mind,” he said, reaching across the table and grasping her hand in his.

  She stood up and laughed.

  “Off you go then,” she said, “ragazzo innamorato . . .”

  Standing over him, she touched his forehead with her index finger. Camilo shuddered as if it were the hand of the Sibyl herself, then he, too, stood up. The fortune-teller went over to the chest of drawers, on which there stood a bowl of raisins. She picked up a handful and began eating the raisins, revealing two rows of white teeth in sharp contrast with the state of her nails. Even when doing something so ordinary, the woman had about her a most unusual air. Camilo was keen to leave, but had no idea how he should pay, or how much.

  “Raisins cost money,” he said at last, taking out his wallet. “How many do you want to send for?”

  “The answer is in your heart,” she replied.

  Camilo took out a ten-mil-réis note and gave it to her. The fortune-teller’s eyes lit up. The usual fee was two mil-réis.

  “I can see you love her very much . . . And you’re quite right, for she loves you very much too. Off you go, it will all be fine. Watch out on the stairs, though, it’s dark. And put your hat on . . .”

  The fortune-teller had already slipped the money into her pocket. She accompanied him down the stairs, talking with a slight Italian accent. Camilo said goodbye to her on the landing and went down to the street, while the fortune-teller, delighted with the ten mil-réis, returned to the attic, humming a Venetian barcarola. Camilo found the cab waiting; the traffic was moving again. He climbed in and they set off at a fast trot.

  Everything seemed better now. Things took on a different aspect: the sky was clear and the faces about him beamed. He even managed to laugh at his own fears, which he now found puerile; he remembered the words of Vilela’s letter and saw in them merely the familiarity of a close friend. What on earth had he found threatening about them? He also noticed the urgency of the message, and that he had been wrong to take so long: it could well be some terribly serious business matter.

  “As fast as you can!” he said to the cabdriver, several times.

  He thought up some story to explain the delay to his friend; it seems he also devised a plan to take advantage of the situation and resume his regular visits . . . Meanwhile, the fortune-teller’s words still echoed in his soul. After all, she had foreseen the reason for his visit, his current predicament, the existence of a third party; why wouldn’t she also be able to foresee everything else? After all, the unknown present is as much of an enigma as the future. And so, slowly but surely, his former beliefs and superstitions took hold of him once again, and mystery gripped him in its iron claws. At times he wanted to laugh, and he did laugh at himself, somewhat shamefacedly; but the woman, the cards, her brief yet reassuring words, her final exhortation—“Off you go then, ragazzo innamorato”—and finally, in the distance, her slow, lilting farewell barcarola, all these were the new elements which, combined with the old ones, formed the basis of a new and vigorous faith.

  The truth is that his heart was cheerful and impatient, thinking about happy times gone by, and those to come. As he passed through Glória, Camilo gazed across the water, staring out to where sea and sky clasp each other in an infinite embrace, and he sensed before him a long, long unending future.

  Shortly afterward, he arrived at Vilela’s house. He got out of the cab and pushed open the iron gate into the garden. The house was silent. He climbed the six stone steps and barely had time to knock when the door opened and Vilela appeared.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t get here any sooner. What’s happened?”

  Vilela did not reply; he looked almost deranged. He beckoned to Camilo, and led him to a small room off the parlor. When he entered, Camilo could not suppress a terrified scream: there, on the sofa, lay Rita, dead and drenched in blood. Vilela then grabbed Camilo by the throat and, with two shots from his revolver, laid him out dead on the floor.

  AMONG SAINTS

  WHEN I WAS CHAPLAIN at the Church of São Francisco de Paula (an elderly priest told me), the most extraordinary thing happened to me.

  I lived right by the church, and one night, I retired to bed rather late. I would never, of course, go to bed without first checking to see that the church doors were properly locked. And so they were, but beneath them I could see a light. Frightened, I ran to fetch the night watchman, and when I couldn’t find him, I went back to the church steps and waited, not knowing what to do. The light wasn’t very bright, but still far too bright for thieves; besides, I noticed that it shone with a steady, even glow rather than wandering from side to side, as would be the case with the candles or lanterns of persons intent on stealing. The mystery intrigued me, and I went home to fetch the keys to the sacristy (the sacristan having gone to spend the night in Niterói), then, having made the sign of the cross, I unlocked the door and went inside.

  The passageway lay in darkness. Holding my lantern, I edged slowly forward, trying to make as little noise as possible. The first and second doors leading into the church were shut, but under them I could see that same light; indeed, it seemed even more intense than when seen from the street. I carried on until I came to the third door, which stood open. I set the lantern down in one corner and covered it with my handkerchief so that I wouldn’t be noticed inside the church, and then I moved closer so as to find out what was going on.

  Suddenly I stopped. It was only then that I realized I had come entirely unarmed, and that entering the church with only my two hands to defend myself could prove risky. Several more minutes raced by. The light from within remained unchanged—a steady, even milky glow, quite unlike candlelight. I could hear voices now, which I found still more troubling: they were neither whispering nor mumbling, but speaking in calm, clear, measured tones, as if they were conducting a normal conversation. At first I couldn’t understand what they were saying, and as I listened, I was struck by a thought that made me shudder. At the time, corpses were often laid to rest inside the church, and I suddenly imagined that it might be the dead talking to each other. I shrank back in terror, and it took me some time to pull myself together and return once more to the doorway, telling myself that such ideas were mere foolish nonsense. Reality, however, was about to show me something even more astonishing than a dialogue of the dead. I commended myself to God, again made the sign of the cross, and, keeping very close to the wall, crept gingerly forward and went in. What I saw was truly extraordinary.

  Two of the three saints on the opposite side, Saint Joseph and Saint Michael (on the right as you enter the church though the main door), had stepped down from their niches and were sitting on their respective altars. They were smaller than their statues, more the size of ordinary men. They seemed to be addressing someone on my side of the church, where the altars of Saint John the Baptist and Saint Francis de Sales were located. I cannot begin to describe what went through my mind. For quite some time (I have no idea how long), I stood rooted to the spot, covered in goose bumps and trembling. I was teetering on the very edge of the abyss of madness, and it was only by divine mercy that I did not actually topple in. What I can, however, confirm is that I lost all consciousness of myself and of any other reality beyond the new and utterly unique reality before my eyes; only thus can I explain the boldness with which, only moments later, I advanced farther into the church, in order t
o see the other wall. And there the same sight greeted my eyes: Saint Francis de Sales and Saint John, having stepped down from their niches, were also sitting on their altars and conversing with the other saints.

  I was so astonished that I believe they continued talking without me even hearing the sound of their voices. Little by little, however, my senses returned and I realized that they had not once interrupted their conversation; I could clearly hear and distinguish their words, but, initially, could make no sense of them. When one of the saints addressed the high altar, I turned my head in that direction and saw that Saint Francis of Paola, the church’s patron saint, had also stepped down from his niche and was joining in the conversation. They weren’t speaking particularly loudly, and yet they were perfectly audible, as if the sound waves had somehow been endowed with a greater power of transmission. But if all this was astonishing, then so was the light: it seemed to come from nowhere, for the chandeliers and candlesticks were all unlit. It was as if moonlight had somehow found its way into the building, but with the moon itself hidden from sight; the comparison is even more exact when you consider that, if it really had been moonlight, some places would have been left in darkness, as indeed was the case, for it was in one of those dark corners that I sought refuge.

  By then I was acting purely on instinct, and what I experienced on that night bore no relation to my life before or after. Suffice it to say that, confronted by this strange spectacle, I felt absolutely no fear; I lost all power of thought and could do little more than listen and look.

  After a few moments, I realized that they were cataloguing and commenting on all of the day’s prayers and petitions. Each of them had something to contribute. All of them, with terrifying psychological insight, had penetrated into the lives and souls of the faithful and picked apart the feelings of each and every one, just as anatomists dissect a corpse. Saint John the Baptist and Saint Francis of Paola, those harsh ascetics, were, by turns, angry and absolute. Unlike Saint Francis de Sales, who listened and gave his judgments with the same kindly indulgence to be found in his famous work Introduction to the Devout Life.