The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  IV

  MINUETTO

  Ten, twenty, thirty days passed after that night, and then another twenty, and then thirty more. The chronology is by no means certain, so it’s best to keep things vague. The situation remained the same: the two men’s same individual inadequacies, and, from the young lady’s perspective, the same ideal conjunction of the two; resulting in a third man, whom she did not know.

  Maciel and Miranda distrusted, indeed increasingly detested, each other, and they suffered greatly, especially Miranda, for whom this passion was a last throw of the dice. Eventually the young lady tired of them both. She watched them gradually retreat. There were a few hopeful relapses, but everything dies, even hope, and finally they left, never to return. The nights went by, and by . . . Maria Regina understood that it was all over.

  The night on which she fully convinced herself of this was one of the most beautiful of the year: cool, clear, and bright. There was no moon, but our friend abhorred the moon—we don’t entirely know why—either because it shines with a borrowed light, or because everyone else admires it, or perhaps for both reasons. It was one of her peculiarities. Here’s another.

  That morning she had read a short piece in the newspaper about double stars, and how they appear to us as one single star. And so, instead of going to sleep, she leaned out of her bedroom window and looked up at the night sky to see if she could spot one of them. All to no avail. Failing to find one in the heavens, she searched for its equivalent within herself, closing her eyes to imagine such a phenomenon—a cheap and easy form of astronomy, but not without its risks. The main disadvantage is that it appears to put the stars within easy reach, so much so that, when the person opens her eyes and sees the stars still shining high above, disappointment and disillusion will surely follow. This is precisely what happened here. Maria Regina saw in her mind’s eye the double-yet-single star. Separately, they were worthy enough; together, they made a truly splendid star. And it was the splendid star that she wanted. When she opened her eyes and saw that the heavenly firmament remained as far away as ever, she concluded that creation was nothing but a flawed book full of errors, and she despaired.

  Then she saw on the garden wall something like two cat’s eyes. At first she was afraid, but quickly realized that they were nothing more than the external projection of the two stars she had seen within herself and which had remained imprinted on her retina. This young lady’s retina projected all her imagined fantasies outward. When the breeze grew cooler, she withdrew, closed the window, and went to bed.

  She did not fall asleep straightaway, on account of the two disks of opal embedded in the bedroom wall; realizing that it was still the same illusion, she closed her eyes and slept. She dreamed that she was dying, and that her soul, borne aloft, was soaring up toward a beautiful double star. The star divided in two and she flew toward one of its halves; not finding her initial feeling there, she hurled herself toward the other half, but with the same result. And there she remained, flitting back and forth between the two separate stars. Then a voice rose up from the abyss, speaking words she could not understand.

  “This is your punishment, O soul in search of perfection; your punishment is to swing back and forth, for all eternity, between two incomplete stars, to the sound of this old and most absolute of sonatas: da, da, dum . . .”

  ADAM AND EVE

  SOMETIME BACK IN the 1700s, the mistress of a sugar plantation in Bahia, who had invited some intimate friends to dinner, announced to one of her guests, a man well known for his gluttony, that there was to be a rather special pudding. He immediately wanted to know what it was; the lady of the house told him not to be so curious. It took only a few minutes for the whole table to be arguing about curiosity, whether it was a masculine or feminine attribute, and who had been responsible for us being cast out of paradise, Adam or Eve. The ladies said it was Adam, the men said Eve, all except for the circuit judge, who said nothing, and Brother Bento, a Carmelite monk who, when quizzed by his hostess, Dona Leonor, replied with a smile: “I, madam, play the viola.” He wasn’t lying, either, for he was just as accomplished on the viola and the harp as he was in theology.

  When asked, the judge replied that there was no basis on which to give an opinion, given that the expulsion from earthly paradise had happened somewhat differently from the account given in the first book of the Pentateuch, which was apocryphal. There was general astonishment, and a chuckle from the Carmelite, who knew the judge to be one of the most pious men in the city, but also an imaginative and jovial fellow, always fond of a good joke as long as it was within the bounds of decency and good taste; on serious matters, however, he was always very serious.

  “Brother Bento,” said Dona Leonor, “do please tell Senhor Veloso to be quiet.”

  “Certainly not,” replied the monk, “because I know that nothing but the truth will fall from his lips.”

  “But the Scriptures—” began Colonel Barbosa.

  “Let us leave the Scriptures in peace,” said the Carmelite, interrupting him. “Senhor Veloso is doubtless acquainted with other books . . .”

  “I know the authentic version,” insisted the judge, accepting the plate of pudding offered to him by Dona Leonor, “and I’m ready to tell you what I know, unless you ask me not to.”

  “Go on, then, tell us.”

  “Here is what really happened. First of all, it wasn’t God who created the world, but Satan.”

  “Goodness gracious!” exclaimed the ladies.

  “Please do not utter that name in this house,” begged Dona Leonor.

  “Quite, it would seem that—” began Brother Bento.

  “All right, the Evil One, if you prefer. It was the Evil One who created the world, but God, who could read his thoughts, gave him a free hand in the matter, taking it upon himself only to correct or modify the results, so that hope of salvation or good deeds would not be subsumed by the power of evil. And the divine Will soon manifested itself, for when the Evil One created darkness, God created light, and thus the first day was made. On the second day, when the waters were created, storms and hurricanes erupted, but then gentle afternoon breezes came down from the divine mind. On the third day, the earth was created, and from it sprang forth plants, but only thorny shrubs that bear no fruit or flower, and deadly weeds like hemlock; however, God then created trees that do bear fruit and plants that nourish and delight. And as the Evil One dug caves and chasms in the earth, God made the sun, the moon, and the stars; such was the work of the fourth day. On the fifth day, the beasts of earth, water, and sky were created. Now we come to the sixth day, and here I ask for your undivided attention.”

  He didn’t need to ask; the whole table was watching him, rapt with curiosity.

  Veloso carried on, saying that on the sixth day man was created, and soon afterward woman too; both were beautiful, but equipped only with base instincts and lacking a soul, which the Evil One could not give them. With one breath God infused them each with a soul, and then, with another breath, he gave them all that is noble and pure in spirit. And divine mercy did not stop there; He caused a garden of delights to grow and led them into it, giving them dominion over everything within it. Both of them fell at the Lord’s feet, weeping tears of gratitude. “Here shall ye live,” the Lord told them, “and ye shall eat of the fruit of every tree, except this one, which is the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.”

  Adam and Eve listened obediently, and, once they were alone, looked at each other in amazement, for they seemed to have changed utterly. Before God had instilled her with noble feelings, Eve had been planning to ensnare Adam in a trap, while Adam had felt an urge to beat her. Now, however, they were absorbed in peaceful contemplation of each other and the magnificent nature surrounding them. Never before had they known air so pure, water so fresh, or flowers so beautiful and fragrant; nor had the sun ever poured down in such torrents of light. Hand in hand they wandered through the garden, and during those first few days they were constantly l
aughing, because, until then, they had not known how to laugh. They had no sense of time. They did not feel the weight of idleness, for they lived by contemplation alone. In the evening, they would watch the sun set and the moon rise, and count the stars; they rarely reached a thousand, though, for counting made them drowsy and they would sleep like angels.

  Naturally, the Evil One was furious when he found out. He could not enter paradise, where everything was against him, nor was he capable of taking on the Lord; however, hearing a rustling in a pile of dry leaves, he looked down and saw the serpent. Eagerly, he called to it.

  “Come here, snake, you slithering piece of bile, venom of venoms; will you be your father’s ambassador and restore his works?”

  The serpent made a vague gesture with its tail, which seemed to be affirmative. Then the Evil One granted the power of speech to the serpent, who replied that, yes, it would go wherever it was sent—to the stars, if he would give it the wings of an eagle; to the sea, if he would tell it the secret of breathing underwater; to the depths of the earth, if he would teach it the talents of an ant. And so the evil serpent rambled on without stopping, its tongue running away with contentment. But the devil interrupted it:

  “There’ll be none of that. Neither air nor sea nor depths of the earth; just the garden of delights, where Adam and Eve live.”

  “Adam and Eve?”

  “Yes, Adam and Eve.”

  “Those two beautiful creatures we saw not so long ago, walking tall and straight as palm trees?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Oh, I hate them. Adam and Eve? No, no—send me anywhere but there. I really hate them! The mere sight of them makes me sick. You wouldn’t by any chance want me to do them harm?”

  “That’s exactly what I want.”

  “Really? Then I will go; I will do everything you wish, my lord and father. Go on, then, quickly, tell me what you want me to do. You want me to bite Eve on the heel? I’ll bite—”

  “No,” said the Evil One. “Quite the opposite. In the garden there is a tree, the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. They must not touch it or eat of its fruit. Go into the garden, coil yourself up in the tree, and when one of them passes by, call to them gently, pick a fruit from the tree, and offer it, saying it is the tastiest fruit in all the world. If they say no, you will insist, telling them that just by eating it they will know the secret of life itself. Go! Go!”

  “I’m going. But I won’t speak to Adam, I’ll speak to Eve. Okay, I’m going. The secret of life itself—is that it?”

  “Yes, the secret of life itself. Go, serpent of my entrails, flower of evil, and if you succeed, I swear that the best part of creation, the human part, will be yours, for you will have the heels of many Eves to bite and the blood of many Adams to infect with your venom. Off you go, then, and don’t forget . . .”

  Forget? The serpent had learned its lesson by heart. It went, it entered paradise, it slithered over to the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, it coiled itself up in the branches, and waited. Soon Eve appeared, walking alone, with the graceful confidence of a queen who knows that no one can take away her crown. Stung by envy, the serpent felt the venom rise to the tip of its tongue, but then remembered the Evil One’s orders, and, with a honeyed voice, called out to her. Eve jumped.

  “Who’s that?”

  “It’s me. I’m up here, eating this fruit . . .”

  “Shame on you! That is the tree of the knowledge of good and evil!”

  “Exactly so. Now I know everything, the origin of all things and the meaning of life. Come, eat, and you will have great powers over the earth.”

  “Never, perfidious snake!”

  “Fool! How can you refuse the glory of all the ages? Listen. Do what I say and you will be legion; you will found cities and your name will be Cleopatra, Dido, and Semiramis; you will carry heroes in your belly and be Cornelia; you will hear the voice of heaven and be Deborah; you will sing and be Sappho. And one day, should God decide to come down to earth, he will choose your womb and you will be called Mary of Nazareth. What more could you want? Royalty, poetry, divinity—all of this you give up because you insist on obeying some silly rule. And that’s not all. All of nature will make you ever more beautiful. The colors of green leaves, dark or pale, the colors of blue skies and deepest night, all of these will be reflected in your eyes. Even the night, in rivalry with the sun, will come and cast playful shadows on your hair. The children of your bosom will weave for you the finest garments, concoct the sweetest perfumes, and the birds will give you their feathers and the land its flowers; everything, everything shall be yours!”

  Eve listened impassively. Adam arrived, listened to them both, and confirmed Eve’s answer. Nothing was worth the loss of paradise, neither knowledge, nor power, nor any other earthly illusion. As they said this, they took each other by the hand and turned away from the serpent, who hurriedly left to report back to the Evil One.

  God, who had heard everything, said to Gabriel: “Go, my archangel, descend to earthly paradise, where Adam and Eve dwell, and bring them here to eternal bliss, which they truly deserve for rejecting the Evil One’s temptations.”

  And, placing on his head his diamond helmet, which glittered like a thousand suns, the archangel tore instantaneously through the air to Adam and Eve and said to them: “Hail, Adam and Eve. Come with me to paradise, which you truly deserve for having rejected the Evil One’s temptations.”

  Astonished and confused, both of them bowed their heads in obedience. Then Gabriel took them each by the hand and the three of them ascended to the eternal abode, where hosts of angels awaited them.

  “Come in! Come in!” the angels sang. “The earth you left behind is given over to the works of the Evil One, to cruel, fierce animals, to dangerous, poisonous plants, to filthy air and fetid swamps. The slithering, hissing, biting snake will reign over it, and no creature like you will ever sound a note of hope and compassion amidst such abomination.”

  And so it was that Adam and Eve entered the kingdom of heaven, to the sound of all the heavenly zithers, which joined together in a hymn to the two cast out from earthly creation.

  When he had finished speaking, the judge handed his plate to Dona Leonor for a second helping of pudding, while the other guests looked at one another, flabbergasted; instead of an explanation, they had just listened to a tale that was highly enigmatic, or, at the very least, without any apparent meaning. Dona Leonor was the first to speak: “I was quite right when I said Senhor Veloso was pulling our legs. That wasn’t what we asked of him at all, and of course nothing of the sort happened. Isn’t that right, Brother Bento?”

  “Only the honorable judge will know the answer to that,” replied the Carmelite, smiling.

  And, raising a spoonful of pudding to his lips, the judge replied: “On second thought, I don’t believe that was what happened at all; on the other hand, Dona Leonor, if it had happened, none of us would be here enjoying this pudding, which is truly divine. Is it the work of that old pastry cook of yours from Itapagipe?”

  THE GENTLEMAN’S COMPANION

  SO YOU REALLY THINK that what happened to me in 1860 could be made into a story? Very well, but on the sole condition that nothing is published before my death. You’ll only have to wait a week at most, for I’m really not long for this world.

  I could even tell you my whole life story, which contains various other interesting episodes, but that would require time, energy, and paper, and I only have paper; my energy is low and time for me is like the guttering flame of a night lamp. Soon the sun will rise on a new day, a terrible sun, impenetrable as life itself. Farewell, my dear friend; read on and wish me well, forgive anything that offends, and don’t be surprised if not everything smells of roses. You asked me for a human document and here you have it. Do not ask me for the empire of the Great Mogul or a photograph of the Maccabees. Ask me, on the other hand, for my dead man’s shoes, and they will be yours and yours alone.

  As you know, t
hese events took place in 1860. Sometime around August of the preceding year, when I was forty-two, I became a theologian—or rather, I began copying out theological tracts for a priest in Niterói, an old friend from school, who thereby tactfully provided me with room and board. During that month of August 1859, he received a letter from a fellow priest in a certain provincial town, who asked him if he knew of a discreet, intelligent, patient fellow who would be willing to go and serve as gentleman’s companion to a Colonel Felisberto, in return for a decent wage. My friend duly consulted me, and I gladly accepted, for I was already becoming fed up with copying out Latin quotations and ecclesiastical formulas. I returned to Rio to say goodbye to a brother of mine, then set off for the provinces.

  When I arrived in the town, I heard dire reports about the colonel. He was, it seemed, a quite unbearable man, eccentric and demanding; no one, it was said, could stand him, not even his friends. He had been through more gentleman’s companions than medicines. Indeed, he had punched two of them in the face. I replied that I was not afraid of healthy folk, still less of the sick; and after discussing matters with the priest, who confirmed what I had heard and recommended an attitude of meekness and loving charity, I proceeded to the colonel’s residence.

  I found him stretched out in a chair on the veranda, breathing heavily. He did not receive me badly; at first he said nothing and merely fixed me with his eyes like a watchful cat. Then a malevolent smile spread across his harsh features. Finally, he told me that none of his previous gentleman’s companions had been any use at all—always sleeping, answering back, chasing after the female slaves. Two of them had been downright thieves!