The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  “I’m sorry, sir . . .” I sobbed.

  “Sorry isn’t good enough! Hold out your hand! Hold it out! Come on! Shameless rascal! Hold out your hand!”

  “But, sir . . .”

  “You’ll only make matters worse!”

  I held out my right hand, then the left, and I took the strokes one after the other, twelve in all, which left my palms red and swollen. Then it was his son’s turn and there was no sparing him, either; two, four, eight, twelve strokes. When he’d finished, he preached us another sermon, calling us insolent good-for-nothings, a disgrace to the school, and swore that if we did it again, the punishment would be so harsh we would remember it for the rest of our lives. “Swine! Crooks! Swindlers!” he shouted.

  As for me, I just stared down at the floor. I didn’t dare look at anyone and I could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on us. I returned to my seat, sobbing, bludgeoned by the schoolmaster’s insults. Fear stalked the classroom; I can assure you that no one would try the same thing that day. I believe even Curvelo was taken aback. I didn’t look at him straightaway, but I swore to myself that, as soon as we were outside in the street, I would smash his face in, just as sure as two plus three makes five.

  A little while later, I glanced over at him; he was looking at me, too, but instantly looked away, and I’m pretty sure he turned pale. He pulled himself together and began to read out loud; he was afraid, though. He began to move around, fidgeting distractedly, scratching his knees, rubbing his nose. Maybe he regretted telling on us; indeed, why had he done it? What had we ever done to him?

  “You’ll pay for this! And how!” I muttered to myself.

  It was time to leave, and he hurried out ahead of me. I didn’t want to fight him right there in Rua do Costa, outside the school; it would have to be in Rua Larga de São Joaquim. However, when I reached the corner, there was no sign of him; he’d probably scuttled down some alley or gone into a shop; I went into an apothecary’s, peered into a few houses, and asked several people if they’d seen him, but no one could tell me anything. That afternoon, he skipped school.

  Obviously, at home, I said nothing, and to explain my swollen hands, I lied to my mother, telling her I hadn’t learned the lesson properly. As I fell asleep that night, I cursed both boys, the one with the coin and the blabbermouth. And I dreamed about the coin; I dreamed that when I went back to school the next day, I found it in the street and picked it up, without feeling a smidgen of fear or guilt . . .

  In the morning, I woke early. The idea of going to look for the coin prompted me to get dressed quickly. It was a splendid May morning, a day of glorious sunshine and gentle breezes, not to mention the pair of new trousers my mother gave me, which, by the way, were yellow. All this and the little silver coin . . . I left the house like a prince about to ascend the throne of Jerusalem. I quickened my pace so that no one would get to school before me, but not so fast that I would crease my new trousers. Oh, but they were smart! I gazed down at them and carefully avoided any chance contact with people or with the rubbish in the street.

  On my way, I met with a company of fusiliers, led by a drummer. When I heard the drumming, I just couldn’t keep still. The soldiers were marching briskly along in perfect time—left, right, left, right—with the sound of the drum; they approached, passed by, and carried on. I felt an itching in my feet and an urge to follow them. As I said, it was a beautiful day, and then there was that drum too . . . I looked both ways; finally, I’m not entirely sure how, I, too, began marching to the drumbeat, even humming some tune or other: “Rato na Casaca,” I believe. I didn’t go to school. I followed the fusiliers, then carried on down to Saúde, and ended the morning on the shore at Gamboa. I returned home with filthy trousers, and with no silver coin in my pocket and no resentment in my soul. Still, that little silver coin was very pretty and it was they, Raimundo and Curvelo, who had given me my first taste of corruption on the one hand, and betrayal on the other. And as for that naughty drum . . .

  AN APOLOGUE

  ONCE UPON A TIME, there was a needle, who said to the reel of thread:

  “Why are you so full of airs and graces, all neatly rolled up like that, pretending you’re worth something in this world?”

  “Leave me alone, madam.”

  “Leave you alone? Why? Just because I tell you that you’re being unbearably pompous? I’ll say it now and I’ll say it again every time it passes through my head.”

  “What head, madam? You are not a pin, you’re a needle. Needles don’t have heads. And what’s it to you how I behave? Each to his own, I say. You mind your business and leave others to theirs.”

  “My, but you’re a proud one.”

  “Indeed I am.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “Well, that’s a fine question! Because I sew. All our mistress’s dresses and ribbons and all the rest of it, who sews them if it isn’t me?”

  “You? Oh, this gets even better. So it’s you who sews? You seem to be overlooking the fact that I, and I alone, do the sewing.

  “You make holes in the fabric, that’s all; I’m the one who sews, joining one piece with another and making all the frilly bits flounce.”

  “Yes, but that’s hardly the important bit. I’m the one who makes the holes, I go on ahead, pulling you behind me, and you do exactly as I do.”

  “The drummers also march ahead of the emperor.”

  “So you think you’re an emperor, do you?”

  “I’m not saying that. But the truth is that yours is just a supporting role; your job is only to show the way, like a low and humble servant. I’m the one who joins, fastens, and binds together.”

  That’s where they had gotten to when the seamstress arrived at the baroness’s. I don’t know if I mentioned that this took place at the home of a baroness, who had her dressmaker come to her, rather than having to visit the shop. The seamstress arrived, picked up the fabric, picked up the needle, picked up the thread, threaded the needle, and began to sew. Between the seamstress’s fingers—which, to give the story a poetic touch, were as agile as the hounds of Diana—the needle and thread marched proudly onward across the fabric, which was the finest of silks. And the needle said to the thread:

  “So, then, Miss High and Mighty, do you still persist in what you were saying earlier? Can’t you see that this fine seamstress cares only for me? Here I am between her fingers, inseparable from them, piercing the cloth up and down, up and down . . .”

  The thread did not reply, but carried on. Every hole opened by the needle was promptly filled by the thread, silently, firmly, purposefully, oblivious to any foolish words. Seeing that no response was forthcoming, the needle, too, fell silent, and continued its work. Silence reigned in the little sewing room; nothing could be heard but the plic-plic-plic-plic of needle and fabric. As the sun began to set, the seamstress put away her sewing; the next day, and the day after, she carried on, until on the fourth day she finished her work, ready for the ball.

  The night of the ball arrived and the baroness put on the dress. The seamstress, who helped her, had the needle pinned in her bodice, so as to make any adjustments should the need arise. And while she was fixing the fine lady’s dress, pulling here, tucking there, smoothing, buttoning, hooking, and fastening, the thread mockingly asked the needle:

  “Now, then, tell me this: Who will be going to the ball, clothing the baroness, inseparable from her dress, her elegance? Who will be dancing with ministers and diplomats, while you go back to the seamstress’s sewing box, and from there to the basket the slaves keep their things in? Come on, tell me!”

  It seems the needle said nothing, but a pin, with a big head and no less experience, whispered to the poor needle:

  “Let that be a lesson to you, you silly old thing. You wear yourself out leading the way for her and she’s the one who gets to enjoy life, while you stay there in the sewing box. Do as I do: I never lead the way for anyone. Wherever they stick me, I stay.”

  I told this tale
to a professor of melancholy, who replied, shaking his head: “I, too, have served as needle to many a mediocre thread!”

  DONA PAULA

  SHE COULD NOT have arrived at a more opportune moment. Dona Paula entered the room just as her niece was drying her eyes, which were red with crying. The aunt’s surprise is easy enough to understand, as is the niece’s, given that Dona Paula lives up in Tijuca and rarely comes down to the city; the last time was at Christmas and we are now in May of 1882. She arrived yesterday afternoon and went straight to her sister’s house in Rua do Lavradio. Today, as soon as she had breakfasted, she dressed and rushed over to visit her niece. When she reached the house, one of the slaves tried to go and warn her mistress, but Dona Paula ordered her to stay put, and, tiptoeing very slowly to keep her skirts from rustling, she opened the door of the drawing room and went in.

  “Whatever’s wrong?” she exclaimed.

  Venancinha threw herself into her aunt’s arms, and again burst into tears. Her aunt kissed her and embraced her tightly, saying many words of comfort, and begging her to tell her what the matter was. Was she ill, or—

  “Oh, I wish I were ill! I wish I were dead!” said the young lady, interrupting her.

  “Now, don’t be so silly. What is it? Come on, what’s happened?”

  Venancinha dried her eyes and tried to speak. She got no further than five or six words before the tears returned, so abundantly and unstoppably that Dona Paula thought it best to let them first run their course. Meanwhile, she took off her black lace cape and removed her gloves. She was, for her age, still a beautiful, elegant woman whose large eyes must once have seemed infinite. While her niece wept, she prudently went over to shut the door, then returned to the sofa. After a few minutes, Venancinha stopped crying and told her aunt what had happened.

  She’d had a terrible quarrel with her husband, so violent that they had even spoken of separation. The cause was jealousy. For some time now, her husband had harbored a dislike for a certain gentleman, but on the previous evening, at C.’s house, seeing her dance with said man twice and talk to him for several minutes, he had concluded that they were lovers. He sulked all the way home, and, in the morning, after breakfast, his anger exploded and he said some very harsh and bitter things, to which she had responded in kind.

  “Where is your husband?” asked her aunt.

  “He’s gone out, probably to the office.”

  Dona Paula asked if his office was still to be found in the same building, and told her not to worry, that this was clearly a fuss about nothing, and in a couple of hours it would all have blown over. She quickly pulled on her gloves.

  “Are you going to see him, Auntie?”

  “I am indeed. Your husband is a good man, and this is just a minor tiff. Number 104, you said? Right, I’m off; wait for me here, so that the slaves don’t see you.”

  All this was said with a kind and confident fluency. After her gloves, she put on her cape, helped by her niece, who kept repeating, indeed swearing, how, despite everything, she still adored Conrado. Conrado was her husband, who had been practicing as a lawyer since 1874. Dona Paula left, taking with her many kisses from the young lady. She really could not have arrived at a more opportune moment. As she made her way to Conrado’s office, it seems that Dona Paula reflected upon the incident with curiosity and not a little suspicion, somewhat uneasy about what might really have happened; in any event, she was determined to restore domestic harmony.

  Her nephew was not in his office when she arrived, but he soon returned. Despite his initial surprise at seeing her there, he did not need Dona Paula to explain the reason for her visit; he guessed what had happened. He admitted that he had gone too far in some respects, and while he did not actually believe his wife to be a wicked or depraved woman, she was something of a flibbertigibbet, too fond of men’s gallantry, tender looks, and flattering remarks. Frivolity could itself be a doorway to vice. As for the man in question, he had no doubt that something was going on between them. Venancinha had only told Dona Paula about the previous night; she had not mentioned the four or five other incidents, the last of which had taken place at the theater, and had even turned into something of a scandal. He had no desire to assume responsibility for his wife’s indiscretions. If she wanted to take lovers, then so be it, but it would be at a cost.

  Dona Paula listened in silence, then she spoke. She agreed that her niece was somewhat flighty; it was only to be expected at her age. Pretty girls cannot go out into the street without attracting attention, and it was only natural for her to be flattered by the attentions of other men. It was also only natural that her response should appear, both to the flatterers and to her husband and to other people, as the beginnings of an affair: their foolishness and his jealousy explained everything. On the other hand, she, Dona Paula, had just seen the poor girl shed genuine tears; she had left her in a wretched state, completely distraught at what he had said to her, even saying she wanted to die. And if he himself only thought her frivolous, then why not proceed with caution and kindness, offering sage advice, avoiding as much as possible the occasions on which such incidents might arise and pointing out to her the harm that can be done to a lady’s reputation by even the appearance on her part of any reciprocity, affection, or kindness toward other men?

  The good lady spent no less than twenty minutes saying these soothing things, and so convincing were her arguments that the nephew felt his heart soften. He did, of course, put up some resistance. Not wishing to seem overly indulgent, he declared two or three times that it was all over between him and Venancinha. To stir his resolve, he brought to mind all the various grievances he held against his wife. The aunt, meanwhile, bowed her head to let the wave wash over, before again raising it and fixing him with her large, wise, perseverant eyes. Slowly and reluctantly, Conrado began to give way. It was then that Dona Paula proposed a compromise.

  “Forgive her, make peace between you, and let her come and stay with me up in Tijuca for a month or two; call it a sort of exile. While she’s with me, I will do my best to knock some sense into her. Agreed?”

  Conrado agreed. As soon as she had his word, Dona Paula bade him good day and left to take the good news to her niece. Conrado accompanied her to the stairs and they shook hands; Dona Paula did not release his without first repeating her words of prudent, compassionate advice, then commented nonchalantly:

  “And the pair of you will come to see that the man who caused all this trouble doesn’t merit even a moment’s thought.”

  “His name is Vasco Maria Portela.”

  Dona Paula turned pale. Which Vasco Maria Portela? An old man, a former diplomat, who . . . No, he had retired to Europe several years before and had just been made a baron. It was one of his sons, recently returned, a regular dandy . . . Dona Paula released Conrado’s hand and hurried downstairs. Although there was no need to adjust her cape, she stood in the hallway for several minutes, fumbling with it, her hands trembling, and with a somewhat troubled look on her face. She even stopped and stared down at the floor, thinking. Then she left the building and returned to her niece, taking with her the reconciliation and its conditions. Venancinha agreed to everything.

  Two days later, they left for Tijuca. Venancinha went rather less willingly than she had promised; it was probably the prospect of exile, or perhaps some lingering regrets. In any event, Vasco’s name went with them up to Tijuca, if not in both of their heads, then at least in the aunt’s, where it created a kind of distant echo, wafting gently down from the days of the great mezzo Rosine Stoltz when the Marquis of Paraná was in government. Power and fame are fragile things, and no less fragile than the bloom on a young girl’s cheek. And where had those three eternities gone? They were buried beneath the ruins of the past thirty years, which was all that Dona Paula had within her and all that lay ahead of her.

  The reader will by now have realized that the other Vasco, the older one, had also once been young and in love. For several years, in the shadow of their r
espective marriages, they had loved each other until they could love no more, and since the passing breeze does not record our human words, it is impossible to set down here what was said of the affair at the time. The affair ended; it had been a succession of sweet and bitter hours, of delights, tears, rages, and raptures—for such were the intoxications that filled this lady’s cup of passion. Dona Paula drank deeply, down to the very last drop, then cast the cup aside, never to drink again. Surfeit led to abstinence, and, with time, her public reputation rested on that latter phase. Her husband died and the years passed. Dona Paula was now an austere and pious widow, held in the highest esteem and respect.

  It was her niece who took her thoughts back to the past. The similarity of the situation, with a man of the same name and blood, awoke in her some old memories. Do not forget that the two of them were now up in Tijuca and would be living together for some time, one in obedience to the other; it was both a temptation and a challenge to memory.

  “Are we really not going back to the city for several weeks?” asked Venancinha, laughing, the following morning.

  “Are you bored already?”

  “No, not at all, I could never be bored; I was just asking . . .”

  Dona Paula, also laughing, wagged her finger and asked if she was already missing life down in the city. Of course she wasn’t, said Venancinha, curling her lip in disdain or indifference. She did perhaps protest too much, like someone who reveals more than she should in her letters, and Dona Paula had the good sense not to read in haste, preferring to weigh each word and syllable so that nothing escaped her, and she found her niece’s gesture somewhat excessive.

  “They’re in love!” she thought to herself.

  This discovery reawakened the spirit of the past. Dona Paula struggled to shake off those importunate memories, yet back they came, meek and mild or bold and blowsy, like the young things they were, singing and laughing and generally causing mayhem. Dona Paula returned to the dances of her youth, to those endless waltzes that sent everyone into raptures, to the mazurkas, which she always held up to her niece as the most graceful thing in the world, to the theaters, the card games, and, more circumspectly, the kisses; but all of these things—and here’s the nub of it—all of these things were like dry, dusty chronicles, mere skeletons of the story, lacking any soul. It was all in her head. Dona Paula tried to yoke her heart to her head, to see if she could feel anything beyond a purely mental reenactment, but, however hard she tried to revive those extinct emotions, none returned. Only bare stumps remained.