The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  “How wonderful!” I cried.

  Elisiário began telling me about that lovely, anonymous work, in such astonishingly abundant, penetrating detail that my amazement only grew. The things he told me about the Venus de Milo, and about Venus too! He spoke about the position of the statue’s arms, the gesture they would have been making, and what a difference that would have made, and he came up with all kinds of elegant, natural hypotheses. He spoke about aesthetics, about the great artists, about Greece and Greek marble and the Greek soul. He appeared to me then as a pure Greek, as if he were transporting me from some wretched, narrow street and depositing me in front of the Parthenon itself. Elisiário’s cope became a chlamys, the language he spoke was that of the Hellenes, even though I knew nothing of such things, then or now. That extraordinary man was a veritable magus.

  We left and went to Campo da Aclamação, which was not the park it is today and was policed only by Nature, which covered it in rough grass, and by the washerwomen soaping and scrubbing their laundry outside the barracks. My mind was still full of all the things Elisiário had told me, and he walked along beside me with bowed head and pensive eyes. Suddenly I heard someone say softly:

  “Hello, there, Ioió!”

  The person who spoke was a woman selling sweets, a black woman from Bahia, or so she seemed to me, given the lavish amount of embroidery and lace on her skirt and blouse. She was walking up from Cidade Nova across Campo da Aclamação. Elisiário responded, saying:

  “Hello, Zeferina.”

  He stopped and turned to me, smiling without smiling, and then, after a few seconds, he said:

  “Don’t look so surprised, boy. There are many different kinds of Venus. However, no one could say of this Venus that she lacks arms,” he went on, still gazing appreciatively at the sweet-seller’s arms, which looked still blacker against the short white sleeves of her blouse. I was too embarrassed to say anything.

  I said nothing about this episode to the other denizens of Rua do Lavradio because it might have gotten Elisiário into trouble, and I didn’t want to appear indiscreet. I felt a kind of veneration for him, which familiarity did nothing to diminish. We even had supper together a few times, and visited the theater. What he found hardest about being in the theater was having to sit for so long in the same seat, squeezed in between two other people, with people in front and behind. On nights when the performance was sold out, and they had to put benches in the aisles, he would become quite agitated at the thought that he wouldn’t be able to leave in the middle of an act if he so chose. On one occasion, at the end of the third act (the play had five), he told me that he could stand it no longer and had to leave.

  We went and had tea at the nearest café, and I stayed there with him until closing time, having forgotten all about the play. We talked about journeys; I told him about my life in the Sertão, the backlands of Ceará; he listened and told me of his many plans to travel throughout the Sertão, over hills, fields, and rivers, by mule and canoe. He would collect all kinds of things: plants, legends, songs, turns of phrase. He described the life of the country people there, he spoke of Aeneas, quoted Virgil and Camões, to the astonishment of the waiters, who stood staring, openmouthed.

  “Do you fancy walking to São Cristóvão—now?” he asked when we were out in the street.

  “Possibly.”

  “No, you’re tired.”

  “I’m not. Let’s go.”

  “No, you’re too tired,” he said at last. “I’ll see you later.”

  I really was very tired and needed to sleep, but just as I was about to turn and set off home, I wondered where he would go all alone at that late hour and decided to follow him for a while from a distance. I caught up with him in Rua dos Ciganos. He was walking slowly, his cane under his arm, his hands either clasped behind him or plunged in his trouser pockets. He walked across Campo da Aclamação into Rua de São Pedro and then up Aterrado. When I reached Campo, I felt like turning back, but curiosity drove me on. Perhaps the wanderer was heading for some secret love nest? Discarding such a prurient thought, I decided to punish myself by abandoning the chase; curiosity, however, had banished my tiredness and lent vigor to my legs. I continued to follow Elisiário, and thus we reached the bridge, which we crossed, ending up in Rua de São Cristóvão. He would sometimes stop to light a cigar or for no reason at all. The city was deserted, apart from the occasional police patrol or the odd cab trotting sleepily past, otherwise there was no one. We reached the harbor at Igrejinha. Asleep on the water were the boats that, during the day, took people to Saco do Alferes. It was low tide, and all we could hear was the gentle lapping of the waves. After a few minutes, when I felt sure he was about to retrace his steps, he woke the oarsmen who happened to be sleeping in their boat, and asked them to row him over to the city. I don’t know how much money he offered them, but I saw that, after some reluctance, they agreed.

  Elisiário got into the boat, which immediately set off, the oars plying the water, and away he went, my Latin teacher and mathematics tutor, until he was lost in the night and the sea. I was lost, too, far from the center and utterly exhausted. Fortunately, I found a cab crossing Campo de São Cristóvão as wearily as me, but, equally fortunately, the driver took pity on me, and no doubt needed the money.

  “It’s a shame you didn’t come with me to São Cristóvão the other night. You don’t know what you missed; it was a beautiful night and a lovely walk. When I got as far as the harbor at Igrejinha, I took a boat over to Saco do Alferes, which was quite a way from home, and so I stayed in a cheap hostel in Campo de Santa Ana. I was attacked by a dog in Saco, and by two more in Rua de São Diogo, but I didn’t even notice the fleas in the guesthouse because I slept the sleep of the just. What about you?”

  “Me?”

  Not daring to lie in case he noticed and not daring to confess that I’d followed him, either, I replied briefly:

  “Me? Oh, I, too, slept the sleep of the just.”

  “Justus, justa, justum.”

  We were at the house in Rua do Lavradio. Elisiário had a coral pin in his shirtfront, which was the object of great surprise and excitement on the part of the other lads, who had never seen him wearing any kind of jewelry before. I was even more surprised later on when the others had left, for, hearing me mention that I didn’t have enough money to buy a new pair of shoes, Elisiário removed the pin and told me to buy some shoes with the proceeds from that. I roundly refused, but, in the end, was obliged to accept. I didn’t sell it or pawn it, however; instead, the following day, I asked for an advance from my father’s agent, bought some new shoes, and took the ferryboat back so that I could restore the pin to its rightful owner. You should have seen the disconsolate look on Elisiário’s face!

  “But didn’t you tell me the other night that it was a present from someone?” I said when he urged me to keep it.

  “Yes, I did, and it’s true, but what use are coral pins to me? I think they look far better on others. Then again, since it was a present, I’ll keep it. You’re sure you don’t want it?”

  “Certainly not if it was a present.”

  “A birthday present, actually,” he went on, staring absentmindedly at the pin. “I’ve just turned thirty-five. I’m getting old, my boy. I’ll soon be claiming my pension and crawling off to die in some hole somewhere.”

  He had replaced the pin in his shirtfront.

  “You mean it was your birthday and you didn’t tell me?”

  “Why should I? So that you could come and visit me? I never receive guests on my birthday. I usually have supper with my old friend Dr. Lousada, who also writes the occasional poem, and the other day he presented me with a sonnet printed on blue paper. I’ve got it at home. It’s not bad, actually.”

  “Was he the one who gave you the pin?”

  “No, it was his daughter. One line of his sonnet is very similar to one by Camões. My old friend knows his classics, and he’s a fine doctor, too, but the best thing about him is his kind hea
rt.”

  I heard that two politician friends of his had once encouraged Elisiário to become a deputy, thinking that he would make a fine orator in the Chamber. He didn’t refuse, exactly, but the project foundered amid much laughter when he asked his friends if they could possibly lend him a few political ideas.

  I like to think that it wasn’t that he lacked ideas, rather that he had too many, and all so contradictory that they never amounted to an opinion. His thoughts depended on the mood of the moment, whether he felt himself to be an exalted liberal or a monarchy-loving conservative. The main reason for his refusal to become a deputy was his complete inability to obey a party, a leader, or any rules and regulations. If he had been free to change the hours when the deputies were in session, to have one session in the morning, another at night, another in the early hours, depending on when he felt like attending, with no order of business, but free to discuss anything from the rings of Saturn to the sonnets of Petrarch, then my wanderer would gladly have accepted the post, as long as he was not actually obliged to do anything, whether that meant remaining silent or speaking when he was called upon.

  Anyway, that was the man captured in that photograph in 1862. He was, in short, a good and very talented man, a fascinating conversationalist, a gentle, restless soul, distrustful and impatient, with no future and no past, with no nostalgia for what was or ambitions for what might be, in short, a wanderer. Except . . . but I’ve been talking for far too long without the benefit of a cigar. Do you mind? And while I’m lighting my cigar, please take another look at that photo, but ignore the eyes, which haven’t come out well at all; they look like the piercing eyes of an inquisitorial cat, as if they wanted to drill into our consciousness. And yet they weren’t like that at all: he tended to look more inward than outward, but when he did turn his gaze outward, he seemed to see everything everywhere.

  Except on that one evening, at around seven o’clock, when it was already dark, and my friend Elisiário turned up at my boardinghouse. I hadn’t seen him for three weeks, and since I was studying for my exams and spending more time closeted in my room, I hadn’t really noticed his absence. Besides, by then I was accustomed to his occasional eclipses. I was just about to go out and had extinguished my candle, leaving the room in darkness, when the tall, lean figure of Elisiário appeared in the doorway. He came in, went straight over to a chair, and I sat down near him, asking where he had been. Elisiário embraced me, sobbing. I was so surprised, I said nothing, but returned his embrace. Finally, he dried his eyes on the handkerchief he usually carried screwed up in one hand and gave a long sigh. I think he continued to weep quietly, though, because now and then he would again dab at his eyes. Feeling more and more alarmed, I waited for him to tell me what was wrong, then, at last, I murmured:

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “I got married on Saturday, Tosta . . .”

  My amazement grew still greater, but I didn’t have time to ask for any further explanation, because Elisiário immediately went on to say that he had married out of gratitude, not love. Disastrous. I didn’t know how to respond to this confidence, barely able to believe what he was saying, and mainly because I didn’t understand why he was so downcast, so sad. As I realized later on, I did not know then who the real Elisiário was. I thought there must be some other reason apart from his marriage; perhaps his wife was an idiot or a consumptive, but who would have forced him to marry an invalid?

  “Disastrous!” he muttered to himself. “Disastrous!”

  When I stood up, saying I would light a candle, Elisiário grabbed the tail of my frock coat.

  “No, don’t embarrass me by lighting a candle. I’d rather tell you about this whole disastrous business in the dark. Yes, married! Disastrous. Not because she doesn’t love me; on the contrary, apparently she’s been madly in love with me for seven years. She’s twenty-five . . . A kind creature! Just disastrous!”

  The word “disastrous” kept recurring throughout the conversation. I was so eager to know the rest of the story that I was almost holding my breath; but I learned very little more, because, after he had stammered out a few more disconnected words, he stopped. All I could glean from him was that his wife was the daughter of Dr. Lousada, his protector and friend, the same woman who had given him the coral pin. Elisiário suddenly fell silent, and, after a few moments, as if filled with regret or embarrassment, he begged me not to tell anyone else what had taken place in that room.

  “You know me better than that . . .”

  “Yes, I do, which is why I came here. I could think of no one else I could confide in. But I’ll go now and say nothing more, there’s no point. You’re young, Tosta, and if you feel no real vocation for marriage, then don’t marry, either out of gratitude or out of self-interest. It will be utter torment. Goodbye. I won’t tell you where I live, because I live with my father-in-law now, so don’t come looking for me.”

  He embraced me again and left. I stood watching from the door of my room. By the time it had occurred to me that I should have shown him out, it was too late; he had already reached the last few steps. The oil lamp barely lit the stairs, and he was descending them very slowly, clinging to the banister, his head bowed and his vast, once-jolly overcoat looking distinctly sad.

  I did not see him again until ten months later. Initially, this was because I had gone to Ceará to see my father during the holidays. When I returned, I heard that he had left for Rio Grande do Sul. Then one day, over lunch, I read in the newspapers that he had arrived back in Rio de Janeiro the previous day, and I hurried off in search of him. I found him in Santa Teresa, in a tiny house, with a garden not much bigger. He embraced me warmly; we spoke about the past, and I asked about his poetry.

  “I published a volume of my poems in Porto Alegre. I didn’t want to, but my wife was so insistent that, in the end, I gave in. She copied them out herself. It still contains a few errors, though, so I’m going to get a second edition published here.”

  Elisiário gave me a copy of the book, but wouldn’t allow me to read any of the poems there and then. He wanted only to talk about times past. He had lost his father-in-law, who had left him a little money, and he was planning to take up teaching again, to see if he could reawaken old emotions. Whatever happened to the lads who used to live in Rua do Lavradio? He recalled former pleasures, long nights full of noisy talk and laughter, which, in turn, sparked similar memories in me, and thus we spent a good two hours. When I stood up to leave, he asked me to stay for supper.

  “You haven’t met my wife yet,” he said. And, going over to the door, he called: “Cintinha!”

  “Coming!” a sweet voice answered.

  Dona Jacinta appeared immediately afterward. She was twenty-six, short rather than tall, plain rather than pretty, but with a kind, serious face and a very serene manner. When he told her my name, she looked at me, startled.

  “He’s a good-looking lad, isn’t he?”

  She agreed, nodding modestly. Elisiário told her I would be dining with them, and she left the room to inform the cook.

  “She’s a good woman,” he said, “devoted and helpful and, it would seem, she adores me. I never have any buttons missing off my jackets now, which is a shame, really. The missing buttons were far better. Do you remember that old overcoat of mine? ‘Such was the scope of Elisiário’s cope . . .’ ”

  “Of course I remember.”

  “I think it lasted me five years. I wonder where it is now. I should really dedicate a funeral ode to it, with an epigraph from Horace!”

  We had a very jolly supper, although Dona Jacinta said little, leaving me and her husband to spend all our time reminiscing. As in the old days, he, of course, gave a few eloquent speeches, to which his wife listened enraptured. Elisiário forgot about us, and she forgot about herself, and I found in his words the same strong, vibrant voice. When he finished one of these speeches, he always tended to remain silent for a while. Digesting what he had just said? Continuing to think about it al
l? Allowing himself to be carried away by the sheer music of his own words? I really don’t know, but he had retained that habit of remaining briefly silent, oblivious to anyone else there with him. When he did this, his wife fell silent, too, gazing at him, filled not with thoughts, but with admiration. This happened twice that evening, and on both occasions she looked almost pretty.

  After coffee, Elisiário announced that he would walk down with me to the city.

  “Is that all right, Cintinha?”

  Dona Jacinta smiled at me, as if to say that such a request was quite unnecessary. She also mentioned her husband’s book of poetry.

  “Elisiário’s so lazy. You must help me to get him to work harder.”

  Half an hour later, he and I were walking down the hill. Elisiário admitted that, since he had married, he’d had little opportunity to recall his bachelor days, and when we reached the center, he suggested we go to the theater.

  “But you didn’t say anything about that to your wife.”

  “Oh, I’ll tell her later. Cintinha’s very good. She won’t mind. Which theater shall we choose?”

  In the end, we chose none of them, but spoke of other things, and at nine o’clock he set off back home. I returned to Santa Teresa a few days later, but he wasn’t in. His wife, though, urged me to wait, saying that he wouldn’t be long.

  “He’s gone to visit someone just around the corner. He’ll be really pleased to see you.”

  While she spoke, she discreetly closed the book she was reading and placed it on one end of the table. We talked about her husband, and she asked me if I considered him to be a great intellect, a great poet, a great orator, in short, a great man. She didn’t use quite those words, but it amounted to the same thing. Since I genuinely did admire him, I agreed absolutely, and the pleasure with which she heard me say this was reward enough for the effort I put into giving due emphasis to my words.