The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  If she could only peer into her niece’s heart, she might find her own image reflected there, and then . . . Once this notion entered Dona Paula’s head, it somewhat complicated her task of cure and restoration. She was sincere in her concern for her niece’s welfare, and wanted to see her reconciled with her husband. Steadfast sinners may well wish for others to sin as well, so as to have some company on the way down to purgatory, but in this case the sin was long gone. Dona Paula set out to her niece Conrado’s superior virtues, but also the passions that could bring their marriage to a bad, indeed worse than tragic, end: he could disown her.

  Conrado’s first visit to them, nine days later, only confirmed her aunt’s warnings: he was cold when he arrived and cold when he left. Venancinha was terrified. She had hoped that those nine days of separation would have softened her husband’s heart, which indeed they had, but he concealed this on arrival and kept a tight lid on his feelings so as not to be seen to be giving in. This proved more salutary than anything else. The terror of losing her husband was the most important element in Venancinha’s recovery. It was even more effective than exile.

  Then, all of a sudden, two days after Conrado’s visit, when aunt and niece were standing at the garden gate ready to go out for their customary stroll, they saw a man approaching on horseback. Venancinha stared at him, uttered a faint cry, and ran to hide behind the wall. Dona Paula understood at once, and remained where she was. She wanted to see the rider at closer quarters, and two or three minutes later she did just that: a handsome, elegant young man with gleaming boots and a firm seat in the saddle. He had the same face as the other Vasco, for he was indeed the son; the same tilt of the head, slightly to the right, the same broad shoulders, the same round, deep eyes.

  That very night, once the first word had been pried out of her, Venancinha told her aunt everything. They had first seen each other at the races, soon after he returned from Europe. Two weeks later, he was introduced to her at a ball, and he looked so dashing, had such a Parisian air about him, that the following morning she mentioned him to her husband. Conrado had frowned, and it was precisely this reaction that planted in her mind an idea that had never occurred to her up until then. She began to enjoy seeing Vasco, and soon enjoyment turned to longing. He spoke to her respectfully and said nice things to her, that she was the prettiest and most elegant girl in Rio, that some of the ladies of the Alvarenga family, whom he had met in Paris, had already been singing her praises to him. He made witty, cutting remarks about other mutual acquaintances, but also knew how to speak from the heart, like no one else she had met before. He did not speak of love, but followed her with his eyes, and though she tried to look away, she could not do so entirely. She began to think about him, often and with great excitement, and her heart beat faster whenever they met; and he may well have seen in the look on her face the impression he made upon her.

  Leaning toward her niece, Dona Paula listened to this account, which appears here in abbreviated form. Her whole life was there in her eyes; with her lips parted, she seemed to drink in her niece’s words, eagerly, like a cordial. She asked for more, for her to tell her everything, absolutely everything. Venancinha’s confidence grew. Her aunt looked so youthful, her very exhortations were so gentle and full of ready forgiveness, that Venancinha found in her a confidante and a friend, apart from the few harsh words that Dona Paula, out of unwitting hypocrisy, had felt obliged to mix in with other, kinder ones, for I wouldn’t say this was intentional, given that Dona Paula was deceiving herself as well. We might compare her to a general invalided out of the army and who tries to rekindle some of his former ardor by listening to the tales of other men’s campaigns.

  “Now you can see that your husband was right,” she said. “You’ve been reckless, very reckless . . .”

  Venancinha agreed, but swore that it was all over.

  “I’m afraid it might not be. Did you really love him?”

  “Auntie!”

  “So you do still love him!”

  “I swear I don’t. Not anymore, but I confess . . . yes, I confess I did. Oh, Auntie, please forgive me; don’t say anything to Conrado. I’m truly sorry . . . As I said, at the beginning I was somewhat smitten . . . But what can you expect?”

  “Did he make any declarations of love?”

  “Yes, one night at the theater, the Teatro Lírico, as we were leaving. He had the habit of calling at our box to accompany me to my carriage. It was at the door to the box . . . just three little words . . .”

  Dona Paula did not, for the sake of decency, ask Venancinha what the precise words of her lover had been, but she imagined the setting, the corridor, the couples leaving, the lights, the crowd, the chatter of voices. With this tableau before her, she was able to imagine some of her niece’s feelings; astutely, and not entirely disinterestedly, she asked her to describe them.

  “I don’t know what I felt,” replied the young lady, whose tongue was loosening with her swelling emotions. “I don’t remember the first five minutes. I think I remained composed, though, and I certainly didn’t respond. Everyone seemed to be looking at us, as if they’d overheard something, and when someone greeted me with a smile, I had the impression they were making fun of me. Somehow I made it down the stairs, and without really knowing what I was doing, I got into the carriage; when we shook hands I let my fingers go limp. I swear to you I wish I hadn’t heard those words. Conrado told me he was sleepy and leaned back in the carriage; it was better that way, because I don’t know what I would have said if we’d had to talk all the way home. I leaned back, too, but not for long; I couldn’t keep still. I looked out of the window and could see only the glare of the streetlamps, and then not even that; I saw the corridors at the theater, the stairs, everyone standing there, him right beside me, whispering those words, just three little words, and I cannot say what I thought during all that time; everything inside me was mixed up and confused, like a kind of internal revolution . . .”

  “And when you got home?”

  “At home, as I undressed, I was able to gather my thoughts a little, but only a little. I slept poorly, and late. I woke in the morning feeling utterly confused. I can’t say whether I was happy or sad; I remember thinking about him a lot, and to put him out of my mind I promised myself that I would tell Conrado everything, but the thoughts kept coming back. From time to time, I could almost hear his voice, and it made me tremble. Then I remembered that, when we said goodbye, I had let my fingers go limp, and I felt, I don’t quite know how to put it, a sort of regret, a fear of having offended him . . . and that made me want to see him again . . . Forgive me, Auntie, but you did ask me to tell you everything.”

  Dona Paula nodded and squeezed her niece’s hand tightly. Hearing those feelings so innocently expressed, she had at last rediscovered something from the old days. One minute her eyes were dull with the drowsiness of remembrance, the next instant they sparkled with warmth and curiosity; she listened to everything, day by day, encounter by encounter, the scene at the theater itself, which, at first, her niece had hidden from her. And then came the rest, the hours of anguish, of longing, fear, hope, the disappointments, the deceptions, the sudden impulses, all the turmoil of any young woman in such circumstances; nothing was spared the aunt’s insatiable curiosity. It was not an entire book, not even one chapter of an adultery, but a prologue—interesting and disturbing.

  Venancinha finished speaking. Lost in her own thoughts, her aunt said nothing. Then she stirred from her reverie, took her niece’s hand, and drew it toward her. She still didn’t speak; at first she just stared intently at all that restless, quivering youthfulness, the fresh mouth, the still-infinite eyes, and only came to herself when her niece asked once again for her forgiveness. Dona Paula said to her everything that a tender, austere mother could say; she spoke of chastity, of love for her husband, of public reputation; she was so eloquent that Venancinha could not contain herself, and wept.

  Tea was brought in, but after certain confidences t
ea is impossible. Venancinha quickly withdrew to her room and, now that more candles had been lit, she left the room with her eyes lowered so that the footman would not see how upset she was. Dona Paula remained at the table, as did the footman. She spent nearly twenty minutes sipping a cup of tea and nibbling a biscuit, and as soon as she was alone, she went and leaned against the window, which looked out over the garden.

  A gentle breeze was blowing; the leaves stirred and whispered, and even though they were not the same leaves as in times gone by, they still asked her: “Do you remember the old days, Paula?” For that is the peculiar thing about leaves: each passing generation tells the next what it has seen, and so they always know everything and ask about everything. “Do you remember the old days?”

  Yes, she did remember, but what she had felt only a short time earlier, a mere shadow, had now passed. In vain she repeated her niece’s words, breathing in the sharp night air: it was only in her head that she found some remnants, mere reminiscences, bare stumps. Her heart had slowed once again and her blood was flowing at its normal pace. She lacked her niece’s moral presence. And yet there she stood, staring into the night, which was just the same as all those other nights and yet had nothing in common with the days of Rosine Stoltz and the Marquis of Paraná; and there she stood, while inside the house the slave-women staved off sleep by telling stories and occasionally, growing impatient, saying to each other:

  “My, but ol’ missy don’t never go to bed tonight!”

  LIFE!

  THE END OF TIME. Ahasuerus, sitting on a rock, stares out at the distant horizon, across which two eagles are flying. He meditates, then dreams. The day draws slowly to a close.

  AHASUERUS: And so I reach the end of time, for here lies the very threshold of eternity. The earth is deserted and forsaken; no other man breathes the air of life. I am the last; now I can die. Death! What a wonderful thought! For centuries upon centuries have I lived, weary and tormented, ever the wanderer, but behold, the centuries have come to an end, and with them, I, too, will die. Farewell, old nature! Blue sky, reborn clouds, roses of a single day and every day, everlasting waters, enemy earth who would not eat my bones, farewell! The wanderer will wander no more. God will forgive me, if he so wishes, but death consoles me. Jagged as my pain rises yonder mountain; the hunger of those passing eagles must be as desperate as my despair. Will ye, divine eagles, die too?

  PROMETHEUS: All mankind must have died; the earth is bare of them.

  AHASUERUS: And yet I hear a voice . . . A man’s voice? Merciless heavens, am I not the last? Here, he approaches. Who are you? In your wide eyes there is something of the mysterious light of the archangels of Israel; you are not a man . . .

  PROMETHEUS: No.

  AHASUERUS: Are you, then, one of the divine race?

  PROMETHEUS: You said it, not I.

  AHASUERUS: I do not know you, but what does that matter? You are not a man and so I can still die; for I am the last, and behind me I close the door of life.

  PROMETHEUS: Life, like ancient Thebes, has a hundred doors. You close one, others will open. You say you are the last of your species? Another species will come, a better one, made not from the same clay, but from the same light. Yes, O last of mankind, the plebeian element will perish forever, and the elite will be what returns to reign over the earth. The times will be set right. Evil will end; the winds will no longer scatter the germs of death, nor the weeping and wailing of the oppressed, but only the song of everlasting love and the blessing of universal justice . . .

  AHASUERUS: What do all these posthumous delights matter to the species that will die with me? Believe me, you who are immortal, to bones that rot in the earth, all the purple of Sidon is worthless. What you are telling me is even better than the world dreamed of by Campanella, in whose ideal city there was crime and sickness; yours excludes all moral and physical injuries. May the Lord hear you! But let me go now and die.

  PROMETHEUS: Go, then, go. But why such haste to end your days?

  AHASUERUS: It is the haste of a man who has lived for thousands of years. Yes, thousands of years. Even men who lived for only a few decades invented a term for that sense of weariness, tedium vitae, which they could never truly have known, not at least in all its vast and unyielding reality, because to acquire such a profound aversion to existence it is necessary to have walked, as I have, through every generation and through every ruin.

  PROMETHEUS: Thousands of years?

  AHASUERUS: My name is Ahasuerus. I was living in Jerusalem when they took Jesus Christ to be crucified. As he passed by my door, he stumbled under the weight of the cross he was carrying, and I drove him on, shouting at him not to stop, not to rest, but to go on up to the hill where he would be crucified . . . Then a voice from heaven told me that I would be condemned to wander ceaselessly until the end of time. So great was my sin, for I showed no pity for the man who was going to die. I didn’t even know why he must die. The Pharisees said the son of Mary had come to destroy the law, and that he must be killed; poor fool that I was, I wanted to show off my zeal, and that is what provoked my actions on that day. Later, as I made my way through all the ages and all the cities of the earth, how often did I see the same thing happen again and again! Whenever zeal entered a humble soul, it became something cruel or ridiculous. That was my unpardonable sin.

  PROMETHEUS: A grievous sin indeed, but the punishment was generous. Other men read only one of life’s chapters; you have read the entire book. What does one chapter know of another chapter? Nothing. But he who has read every chapter connects them all together and draws conclusions. If some pages are melancholy, others are jovial and happy. After bitter tears comes laughter, out of death springs life, storks and swallows change climate without ever abandoning it entirely; thus is everything reconciled and restored. You saw this, not ten times, not a thousand times, but every time; you saw the magnificence of the earth healing the affliction of the soul, and the joy of the soul overcoming the desolation of things. Such is the alternating dance of nature, which gives its left hand to Job and its right hand to Sardanapalus.

  AHASUERUS: What do you know about my life? Nothing; you know nothing of human life.

  PROMETHEUS: I know nothing of human life? Don’t make me laugh! Come on, then, everlasting man, explain yourself! Tell me everything; you left Jerusalem . . .

  AHASUERUS: I left Jerusalem. I began my pilgrimage through the ages. I traveled everywhere, encountered all races, beliefs, and tongues; I traveled in sunshine and in snow, among civilized peoples and barbarians, to islands and to continents; wherever mankind breathed, there breathed I. I never worked again. Work is a refuge, and I never again knew such a refuge. Every morning brought with it my daily coin . . . See? Here is the last one. Be gone with you, worthless thing! (He hurls the coin into the distance.) I did not work, only wandered, always, always, always wandering, day after day, year after year, down through all the years and all the centuries. Eternal justice knew what it was doing, for to eternity it added idleness. Each generation bequeathed me to the next. Languages that had died lay with my name embedded in their bones. With each passing age everything was forgotten; heroes vanished into myths, into a distant shade, and history slowly dissolved, retaining only two or three faint and far-off outlines. And in one way or another I saw it all. You spoke of chapters? Happy are those who read their lives in only one chapter. Those who departed at the birth of empires took with them an impression of their perpetuity; those who died when those empires were declining were buried with the hope of their restoration; but do you know what it is like to see the same thing over and over again, the same alternation of prosperity and desolation, desolation and prosperity, endless funerals and endless hallelujahs, sunrise after sunrise, sunset after sunset?

  PROMETHEUS: But you did not suffer, I believe, and it is at least something not to have suffered.

  AHASUERUS: Yes, but I saw other men suffer, and, toward the end, cries of joy had much the same effect on me as the ramblings of a
madman. Calamities of flesh and blood, endless conflicts; I saw everything pass before my eyes, to the point where night has made me lose my taste for day, and I can no longer distinguish flowers from weeds. To my weary retina everything looks the same.

  PROMETHEUS: But nothing harmed you personally; it was I who, for time immemorial, suffered the effects of divine wrath.

  AHASUERUS: You?

  PROMETHEUS: I am Prometheus.

  AHASUERUS: You are Prometheus?

  PROMETHEUS: And what was my crime? From mud and water I made the first men, and then, out of compassion, I stole for them the fire of heaven. That was my crime. Jupiter, who reigned over Olympus at the time, condemned me to the cruelest of tortures. Come, climb up upon this rock with me.

  AHASUERUS: This is a fable you are telling me. I know this Hellenistic dream.

  PROMETHEUS: Old man of little faith! Come and see these chains that bind me; an excessive punishment, given that no crime was committed, but proud divinity is a terrible thing. Anyway, look, here they are . . .

  AHASUERUS: You mean that Time, which corrodes everything, did not want these chains?

  PROMETHEUS: They were the work of divine hands: Vulcan forged them. Two messengers from heaven came and chained me to the rock, and an eagle, like that one over there flying across the horizon, pecked at my liver, without ever consuming it entirely. This I endured for countless ages. You cannot imagine the agony.