The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  “But only once you’re fully recovered,” he concluded.

  “Just as soon as the fever subsides a little,” said Pestana.

  There was a few seconds’ pause. The clarinetist quietly tiptoed over to prepare the medication; the publisher stood up and took his leave.

  “Goodbye.”

  “Look,” said Pestana, “since it’s quite likely that I’ll be dead in the next few days, I’ll do you two polkas straightaway; the other will come in handy for when the liberals are back.”

  It was the only joke he had made in his entire life, and it came none too soon, for he died at five minutes past four the following morning, at peace with his fellow men and at war with himself.

  THE OBJECT OF DESIRE

  “AH, COUNSELOR, now you’re beginning to talk in verse!”

  “All men should carry a lyre in their hearts, or else they’re not men. I’m not saying they should use it all the time or for no good reason, just now and again, when recalling certain special moments. Do you know why I sound to you like a poet, despite all my years as a lawyer and my graying hair? It’s because we’re walking through Glória, past the foreign ministry . . . There’s the famous hill . . . And farther on, there’s a certain house . . .”

  “Let’s keep walking.”

  “Yes, let’s. Ah, the divine Quintília! The faces we pass are all different, of course, and yet they speak to me of those times, as if they were the same faces as before; the lyre has been plucked, and the imagination does the rest. Divine Quintília!”

  “Her name was Quintília, you say? I once knew a pretty girl by that name, when I was at medical school. People used to say she was the most beautiful girl in Rio.”

  “It must be the same one, for she did have that reputation. Tall and slim?”

  “That’s the one. What became of her?”

  “She died in 1859. The twentieth of April. A day I’ll never forget. I’m going to tell you an interesting story, or at least it’s interesting to me, and I believe it will be to you too. See? There’s the house. She lived with an uncle, a retired naval commander. She had another house up in Cosme Velho. When I met Quintília . . . What age do you think she was when I met her?”

  “If it was in 1855 . . .”

  “Yes, in 1855.”

  “She must have been twenty.”

  “She was thirty.”

  “Thirty?”

  “Yes, thirty. She didn’t look it, and even her rivals wouldn’t have accused her of being that old. But she herself admitted it, even reveled in it. In fact, one of her friends contended that Quintília was no older than twenty-seven, but since they had both been born on the same day, she was only saying that to make herself seem younger.”

  “Now, now. No irony, please. Irony and nostalgia make poor bedfellows.”

  “What is nostalgia but the irony of time and fortune? You see? I’m beginning to sound pompous. Thirty years old, but she really didn’t look it. You’re quite right when you say she was tall and slim; she had eyes that, as I used to say back then, seemed cut from the very cloak of night, but although nocturnal, they held neither mysteries nor unplumbed depths. Her voice was soft with a very slight São Paulo accent; she had a generous mouth, with teeth that, even when she was talking, made her look as if she were laughing. She did laugh as well, and, for a time, it was the combination of her laughter and her eyes that caused me such pain.”

  “But you said her eyes held no mysteries . . .”

  “Yes, so much so that I reached the point of supposing them to be the open gates of the castle, and her laughter the bugle call summoning the knights in shining armor. We already knew her, João Nóbrega and I; he and I shared an office when we were both bosom pals starting out at the bar, but it never occurred to us to woo her. She was then at the very pinnacle of society; she was beautiful, rich, elegant, and moved in all the best circles. But one day, standing in the aisle at the old Teatro Provisório, between two acts of Bellini’s I Puritani, I heard a group of young men referring to her as an impregnable fortress. Two of them confessed to having tried to approach her, but with no success; all of them were amazed she was still single, which struck them as inexplicable. And they joked about it: one said she’d vowed to see if she got fat first; another that she was waiting for her uncle’s second youth so she could marry him; another that she had probably summoned some guardian angel from heaven. I found such tittle-tattle irksome in the extreme and, coming as it did from those who claimed to have loved or courted her, I thought it rude beyond words. What they all agreed upon was her extraordinary beauty; about that they were utterly enthusiastic and sincere.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember! She was very pretty indeed.”

  “The following day, on arriving at the office, after two court cases had failed to turn up, I told Nóbrega what I’d heard the previous night. Nóbrega laughed at the incident, then grew thoughtful and, after pacing the room, he stopped in front of me and stared down at me in silence. ‘Are you in love with her? Is that what it is?’ I asked. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘are you? I’ve just had an idea: why don’t we attempt our own assault on the fortress? What have we got to lose? Either she throws us out on our ear, which is the most likely outcome, or she accepts one of us, and then so much the better for the other one, who will see his friend happy.’ ‘Are you serious?’ ‘Very.’ Nóbrega added that it was not only her beauty that made her attractive. Note that he liked to think of himself as a practical type, whereas he was really a dreamer who spent all his time reading and concocting plots of a sociopolitical nature. According to him, what those young bucks at the theater had avoided mentioning was the lady’s wealth, which was one of her most notable charms, and one of the likely causes of their disappointment and sarcasm. ‘Listen here,’ he said to me, ‘money shouldn’t be worshipped, but nor should we turn our backs on it; we shouldn’t start thinking that money can buy everything, but we must allow that it can buy quite a few things—this watch, for example. So let’s fight for our Quintília, mine or yours, but probably mine, since I’m so much better-looking than you.’ ”

  “This is a grave confession, Counselor. Did it really start like that, as a joke . . . ?”

  “Yes, that weighty undertaking started out as a joke, which still had a whiff of the student prank about it, one that could well have ended in nothing, but was to have serious consequences. It was a reckless beginning, almost a childish game, without an ounce of sincerity, but man proposes and the species disposes. We already knew her, although we had met her only occasionally. However, once we had embarked on this common endeavor, a new element entered our life, and within a month we had fallen out.”

  “Fallen out?”

  “Well, nearly. We hadn’t reckoned on Quintília herself, and she bewitched us both, completely and utterly. After a few weeks, we avoided talking about her or did so with feigned indifference, each trying to fool the other and hide our true feelings. That was how our friendship crumbled, after just six months, without rancor or struggle, or indeed any outward sign, for we still spoke when we happened to run into one another; but, by then, we’d set up our own separate offices.”

  “I’m beginning to get a first inkling of the drama.”

  “Tragedy, call it a tragedy; because shortly afterward, either because of some words of discouragement she may have given him, or simply because he despaired of ever winning, Nóbrega abandoned the field and left it to me alone. He got himself appointed district judge somewhere up in the backlands of Bahia, where he wasted away and died before four years were out. And I swear to you it wasn’t Nóbrega’s much-vaunted practicality that separated him from me; he, who had talked so much about the advantages of money, died as wracked by love as any young Werther.”

  “Only without the pistol.”

  “Poison also kills, and love for Quintília could be said to be something along those lines; that was what killed him, and what still pains me to this day. But I see from your remark that I’m boring you.”

&n
bsp; “Good God, man, certainly not! I swear it was just a silly joke of mine. Do carry on, Counselor; you were saying that you had the field to yourself.”

  “With Quintília, no one ever had the field to himself. This was not her doing, but there were always other men. Many came to sip an aperitif of hope, and then went on to dine elsewhere. She didn’t favor anyone in particular, but she was always amiable and charming, with the kind of languid eyes that were not made for jealous men. I was bitterly, at times ferociously, jealous. I made many a mountain out of a molehill, and on every mountain sat the devil himself. Finally, I got used to seeing them merely as fleeting fancies. Others gave me more cause for concern: those who came holding the gloved hands of her female companions. I believe there were two or three attempts at such introductions, but without success. Quintília declared that she would do nothing without consulting her uncle, and her uncle always advised her to refuse—as, of course, she had already anticipated. The old man never liked any of her gentlemen callers, fearing that his niece would choose one and marry. He was so used to having her by his side, like a crutch for his crippled soul, and he feared losing her entirely.”

  “Might that not be the reason for the young lady’s steadfast indifference?”

  “No, as you will see.”

  “What I do see is that you were more persistent than the others . . .”

  “Deluded, rather, at least to begin with, because, in the midst of so many ill-fated proposals, Quintília seemed to prefer me to all the other men, and always spoke to me far more freely and intimately, so much so that rumors spread of our impending marriage.”

  “But what did you talk about?”

  “Oh, about all the things she didn’t discuss with the others; indeed, it was astonishing that a person so keen on balls and promenades, on waltzing and laughing, could be so earnest and serious with me, so different from how she normally was or appeared to be.”

  “She obviously must have found your conversation less banal than that of the other men.”

  “Well, thank you, but the reason was deeper than that, and it grew more pronounced as time went on. When life down here in the city became too tedious for her, she would go up to Cosme Velho, and there our conversations were longer and more frequent. I cannot begin to tell you, for even you would not understand, how many hours I spent there, absorbing the vitality that flowed out of her. Many a time, I wanted to tell her how I felt, but the words took fright and stayed locked in my heart. I wrote letter after letter, but they all seemed to me too cold, long-winded, or pompous. Furthermore, she gave me no opportunity, always behaving as if we were merely old friends. At the beginning of 1857, my father fell ill in Itaboraí; I rushed to see him and found him close to death. This kept me away from the capital for around four months. I returned toward the end of May. Quintília was clearly saddened by my sadness, and I could see that my grief had reached her eyes too . . .”

  “And what was that if not love?”

  “That’s what I thought, and I set my sights on marrying her. At that point, her uncle fell gravely ill. Quintília would not be left alone in the event of him dying, because, in addition to her many relations scattered here and there, a widowed cousin, Dona Ana, now lived with her, in the house on Rua do Catete. It was evident, however, that her chief emotional attachment was departing this world and, in that transition between her present and future lives, I might achieve what I most desired. The uncle’s illness was brief and, assisted by old age, it carried him off within a fortnight. His death, I can tell you, reminded me of my own father’s, and the sorrow I felt was almost the same. Quintília saw my suffering, understood its dual causes, and, as she told me afterward, took some consolation in the coincidence, since it had fallen on us both so inevitably and abruptly. Her words seemed to me an invitation to declare my hand; two months later, I decided to propose. Dona Ana was still living with her up in Cosme Velho. I went there and found them together on the terrace, close to the mountain. It was four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. Dona Ana, who assumed there was an understanding between us, tactfully left us alone.”

  “At last!”

  “There on the terrace, in that isolated and, may I say, rather wild place, I resolved that I would say my piece first, for fear that five minutes of conversation would sap me of my strength. Even so, you can scarcely imagine how much it took out of me: I would have found a pitched battle less exhausting, and I can assure you I was not born to be a soldier. But that slight, delicate woman held me in the palm of her hand like no other, before or since . . .”

  “And what happened?”

  “Quintília had guessed from my troubled expression what I was going to ask her, and she prepared her answer while I spoke. Her response was interrogative and negative. Whatever for? It was better for us to remain friends. I replied that for me friendship had been, for quite some time, the mere sentinel of love; now, no longer able to contain it, the sentinel had set it free. Quintília smiled at the metaphor, and, fool that I was, I found her smile painful; seeing the effect her words had on me, she again became serious and set out to persuade me that it was better not to marry. ‘I’m old,’ she said; ‘I’m nearly thirty-three.’ ‘But I love you just the same,’ I replied, and said many other things I could not possibly repeat now. Quintília reflected for a moment, then insisted again on friendship; she said that, despite being younger than her, I had the gravity of an older man and inspired her with a confidence no other man had. I paced the terrace in despair, then sat down again and told her everything. When she heard about my quarrel with my old friend from law school, and our subsequent estrangement, she felt hurt or annoyed, I’m not quite sure which. She blamed us both; things should never have gone that far. ‘You’re just saying that,’ I told her, ‘because you don’t feel the same about me.’ ‘Have you lost your senses?’ ‘I believe I have. What I can assure you is that even now, if the need arose, I would do the same again a hundred times over, and I think I can safely say that he would too.’ At this point, she looked at me in astonishment, as if at someone who has completely lost his mind. Then she shook her head and repeated that it had all been a terrible mistake, that it simply wasn’t worth all that pain. ‘Let us be friends,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘That’s impossible,’ I replied, ‘you’re asking me for something I cannot give. I could never see you as only a friend; I don’t want to impose on you; I’ll even say that I will insist no further, because now I would accept no other answer.’ We exchanged a few more words and I left. Just look at my hand.”

  “It’s shaking . . .”

  “And I haven’t told you everything yet. I haven’t told you about the pain I endured, or the lingering grief and resentment. I regretted it all bitterly, angrily even, for I should have brought matters to a head during those first few weeks. Hope was the culprit, a weed that had crowded out other, finer plants. After five days, I left for Itaboraí, summoned by certain matters arising from my father’s will. When I returned home three weeks later, a letter from Quintília was waiting for me.”

  “Oh!”

  “I tore it open: it was dated four days earlier. It was a long letter, alluding to recent events and saying things that were both tender and serious. Quintília assured me she had waited for me every day, unable to believe that I would be so selfish as not to return. And so she was writing to beg me to turn the page on my unrequited feelings, to remain her friend, and see her as mine. And she concluded with these rather peculiar words: ‘Is it a guarantee you want? I promise you that I will never marry.’ I understood that we were bound together by a moral sympathy, with the difference that what in me was a genuine passion, in her was merely a matter of temperament. We were two partners entering into the commerce of life with differing amounts of capital: I brought all that I possessed, she came with barely a penny. I replied to her letter along such lines, and declared that my obedience and love were such that I would submit to her wishes, but with bad grace, because after all that had happened between us, I w
as bound to feel humiliated. I had crossed out the word ‘ridiculous,’ which is what I had written initially, so that I could go and see her without that additional indignity; the other word was bad enough.”

  “And you yourself followed hard on the heels of the letter, I imagine? That’s what I would have done, because, unless I’m much mistaken, that young lady was dying to marry you.”

  “Leave aside your usual theories; this is a most unusual case.”

  “Then let me guess the rest; her promise was some kind of mystical encirclement from which only you, the recipient, could release her, on condition that you yourself would profit from the absolution. In any event, you rushed to see her.”

  “No, I didn’t rush; I went two days later. In the meantime, she replied to my letter with an affectionate note, which concluded with this remark: ‘Don’t speak of humiliation when there were no witnesses.’ I returned not once but many times, and things went back to how they had been before. Nothing was said; at first I found it very hard to pretend nothing had changed; later on, the demon hope again took up residence in my heart and, without ever saying anything, I entertained the thought that, one day, sooner or later, she would come around to marrying me. And, given the situation I found myself in, it was this hope that restored me in my own eyes. Rumors of our impending marriage circulated widely. When they reached our ears, I denied them formally and categorically, and she shrugged her shoulders and laughed. This phase of our life was for me the most serene, except for one brief incident involving a diplomat from Austria or somewhere, a strapping fellow, elegant, redheaded, with large, seductive eyes, and a nobleman to boot. Quintília behaved so amiably toward him that he thought he was in with a chance, and tried to take things further. I believe some involuntary gesture of mine, or perhaps some finer perception bestowed on him by heaven, soon disabused the Austrian legation of any misunderstanding. Not long afterward, Quintília became ill, and it was then that our friendship deepened. She decided not to leave the house during her treatment, for such were the doctors’ orders. I spent many hours there every day. She and Dona Ana would play the piano, or all three of us would sit at cards, or read to each other; most of the time we just talked. It was then that I was able to study her at length; listening to her read, I saw that books purely about love were incomprehensible to her, and if they contained violent passions she would cast the book aside out of boredom. This wasn’t ignorance on her part; she had a vague notion of such passions, and had witnessed them in other people around her.”