Machado de Assis
FOR CAROLINA
My dearest, to this your final resting place,
In which you take repose from this long life,
I come and will come, my poor belovèd,
To bring you a companionable heart.
It beats with the same true affection
That, despite the usual human struggles,
Made ours an existence to be envied
And in one small corner built a world entire . . .
I bring you flowers—remnants plucked
From the earth that saw us live united
And leaves us separated now by death;
And if I, in my mortally wounded eyes,
Still harbor thoughts drawn from that life,
Those thoughts are of what was and is no more.
FATHER AGAINST MOTHER
LIKE MANY OTHER social institutions, slavery brought with it certain trades and implements. I will mention only a few of those implements because of their connection with a particular trade. There was the neck iron, the leg iron, and the iron muzzle. The muzzle covered the mouth as a way of putting a stop to the vice of drunkenness among slaves. It had only three holes, two to see through and one to breathe through, and was fastened at the back of the head with a padlock. Along with the vice of drunkenness, the muzzle also did away with the temptation to steal, because slaves tended to steal their master’s money in order to slake their thirst, and thus two grave sins were abolished, and sobriety and honesty saved. The muzzle was a grotesque thing, but then human and social order cannot always be achieved without the grotesque or, indeed, without occasional acts of cruelty. The tinsmiths would hang them up at the doors of their shops. But that’s enough of muzzles for the moment.
The neck iron was fitted to slaves who made repeated attempts to escape. Imagine a very thick collar, with a thick rod either to the right or the left that extended as far as the head and was locked from behind with a key. It was, of course, heavy, but was intended not so much as a punishment as a sign. Any slave who ran away wearing one of these would instantly be identified as a repeat offender and quickly recaptured.
Half a century ago, slaves often ran away. There were large numbers of them, and not all enjoyed enslavement. They would sometimes be beaten, and not all of them liked being beaten. Many would merely receive a reprimand, either because someone in the household would speak up for them or because the owner wasn’t necessarily a bad man; besides, a sense of ownership moderates any punishment, and losing money is not itself without pain. There were always runaways, though. In a few rare cases, a contraband slave who had just been bought in the Valongo slave market would immediately escape and race off down the streets, even though he didn’t know the town at all. Those who stayed put—usually the ones who already spoke Portuguese—would arrange to pay a nominal “rent” to their master and then earn their living outside the house as street vendors.
A reward was offered to anyone who returned a runaway slave. Advertisements were placed in the local newspapers, with a description of the fugitive, his name, what he was wearing, any physical defects, the area where he had last been seen, and the amount of the reward. When no amount was given, there would be a promise: “will be handsomely rewarded” or “will receive a generous reward.” The advertisement would often be accompanied at the top or the side by a drawing of a black figure, barefoot and running, with, on his shoulder, a stick with a small bundle attached. It also carried a warning that anyone sheltering the runaway would feel the full force of the law.
Now, pursuing fugitive slaves was one of the trades of the time. It might not have been a very noble profession, but, since it involved helping the forces who defend the law and private property, it had a different sort of nobility, the kind implicit in retrieving what is lost. No one took up that trade in the pursuit of entertainment or education; other reasons lay behind such a choice for any man who felt tough enough to impose order on disorder: poverty, a need for money, a lack of any other skills, pure chance, and, occasionally, the desire to be useful, at least to one of the parties.
Cândido Neves—known to his family as Candinho—is the person caught up in this tale of an escaped slave; he had already sunk into poverty when he began recapturing fugitive slaves. He had one grave fault: an inability to hold down any job or trade; he had no staying power, although he himself put this down to bad luck. He started out wanting to be a typographer, but soon saw that it would take a long time to become really good, and that even then he might not earn enough, or so, at least, he told himself. Then a career in commerce seemed a good idea, and he eventually found a job as a clerk in a notions store. However, being obliged to attend to and serve all and sundry wounded his self-esteem, and, after five or six weeks, he left of his own volition. Bookkeeper to a notary, office boy in a department attached to the Ministry of Internal Affairs, postman, and other positions were all abandoned shortly after he took them up.
When he fell in love with Clara, all he had were debts, although not as yet that many, for he lived with a cousin, a wood-carver by trade. After several attempts to get work, he decided to take up his cousin’s trade, and had already had a few lessons. It was easy enough to get his cousin to give him a few more, but, because he wanted to learn quickly, he learned badly too. He never made anything very fine or complicated, just claw-and-ball feet for sofas or mundane carvings for chair backs. He wanted to be working when he eventually married, and marriage was not far off.
He was thirty years old, and Clara was twenty-two. She was an orphan and lived with her Aunt Mônica, with whom she made a living as a seamstress. Her work was not so arduous that she had no time for flirtations, but none of her potential suitors proved serious. Whole evenings passed with her looking at them and with them looking at her, until it grew dark and she had to return to her sewing. What she noticed was that she did not really miss any of them and none filled her with desire; she didn’t even know the names of some. She did, of course, want to marry, but, as her aunt said, it was like fishing with a rod and waiting for a fish to bite, but all the fish swam straight past, apart from the occasional one who stopped, swam around the bait, looked at it, sniffed, then swam away to inspect other bait.
Love, however, always recognizes its intended recipient. When she saw Cândido Neves, she felt at once that he was the husband for her, the one, true husband. They met at a dance; this—to take an image from Candinho’s first job as a typographer—was the opening page of that book, one that would leave the presses badly composed and even more badly bound. The marriage took place eleven months later, and it was the most splendid party their relatives had ever attended. More out of envy than out of friendship, Clara’s friends tried to dissuade her from the path she was about to take. They did not deny that her husband was a decent enough fellow, nor that he loved her, nor even that he had certain other virtues, but, they said, he was rather too fond of having a good time.
“Thank heavens for that,” retorted Clara, “at least I’m not marrying a corpse.”
“No, not a corpse, but . . .”
The friends did not explain further. After the wedding, the newlyweds moved into some shabby lodgings with Aunt Mônica, who spoke to them about the possibility of their having children. They wanted only one, even though it would, of course, be an added burden.
“If you have a child, you’ll all die of hunger,” her aunt said to her niece.
“Our Lady will provide,” said Clara.
Aunt Mônica should have issued this warning or, rather, threat when Candinho came to ask for Clara’s hand in marriage, but she, too, liked a good time, and the wedding would, after all, be an opportunity for a party, which it was.
All three of them enjoyed a laugh. The couple, in particular, would laugh at almost anything. Even their bright, snow-white names—Clara, Neves, Cândido—were the subject of jokes, and while jokes might not put food on the table, they did make them laugh, and laughter is easily digested. Clara took in more
sewing, and Cândido did odd jobs here and there, but never found any fixed employment. They still did not give up their dream of having a child. The child, however, unaware of their hopes, was still waiting, hidden in eternity. One day, though, it did finally announce its presence, and regardless of whether it was male or female, it would be the blessèd fruit that would bring the couple the happiness they sought. Aunt Mônica was horrified, but Cândido and Clara laughed at her anxieties.
“God will help us, Auntie,” insisted the mother-to-be.
The news spread from neighbor to neighbor. All that remained now was to wait for the great day to dawn. Clara worked even harder than before, well, she had no choice, since, on top of her paid work, she was also busily making the baby’s layette out of odds and ends. Indeed, she thought of little else, measuring out diapers, sewing dresses. What little money they earned was slow to come in. Aunt Mônica did help, but only reluctantly.
“You’re in for a wretched life, you’ll see,” she would sigh.
“But other people have children, don’t they?” Clara would ask.
“They do, and those children are always guaranteed to find food on the table, too, however scant . . .”
“What do you mean, ‘guaranteed’?”
“I mean because their father has a guaranteed job, trade, or occupation, but what does the father of this poor unfortunate creature do with his time?”
As soon as Cândido Neves heard about this conversation, he went to see the aunt, not in anger, but nonetheless rather less meekly than usual, and he asked if, since living with them, she had ever once gone hungry.
“The only time you’ve fasted was during Holy Week, and that’s only because you chose not to have supper with us. We’ve never gone without our salt cod . . .”
“I know, but there’s only the three of us.”
“And soon we’ll be four.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“What would you have me do, beyond what I’m already doing?”
“Something that would bring in a steady wage. Look at the cabinetmaker on the corner, or the haberdasher, or the typographer who got married on Saturday, they all have guaranteed employment. Now, don’t be angry. I’m not saying you’re lazy, but your chosen trade is so uncertain. There are some weeks when you don’t earn a penny.”
“Yes, but other nights make up for that entirely, or even more so. God is by my side, and any fugitive slave knows I mean business. They rarely resist and some give themselves up straightaway.”
He was proud of this, and spoke of hope as if it were money in the bank. Then he laughed and made the aunt laugh, too, for she was, by nature, a cheerful soul and was already looking forward to another party when the child was baptized.
Cândido Neves had abandoned his job as a wood-carver, as he had so many others before, both better and worse. Catching runaway slaves had a certain charm. He was not obliged to spend long hours sitting down, and all the job required was strength, a quick eye, patience, courage, and a length of rope. He would read the advertisements, copy them down, stick the piece of paper in his pocket, and set off in search of fugitives. He had a keen memory too. Once he had fixed in his mind the features and habits of a slave, it did not take long to find him, secure him, tie him up, and bring him back. Strength and agility were what counted. On more than one occasion, he would be standing on a corner, chatting, and along would come a slave, looking no different from any other slave, and yet Cândido would recognize him at once as a runaway, his name, his master, his master’s house, and the size of the reward; he would immediately interrupt the conversation and set off after the villain. He wouldn’t stop him there and then, but would wait for the right place to nab both slave and reward. Occasionally the slave would fight tooth and nail, but, generally speaking, Candinho emerged from such encounters without a scratch.
One day, though, his earnings began to dwindle. Runaway slaves no longer surrendered themselves only to Cândido Neves’s hands. There were newer, more skillful hands around. As the business grew, other unemployed men took themselves and a length of rope and went off to the newspapers to copy out the advertisements and go hunting. Even in his own neighborhood, he had more than one competitor. In short, Cândido’s debts began to grow, and, without the instant or almost instant reward he had garnered before, life became much harder. They ate poorly and on credit; they ate late. The landlord would send around for the rent.
Clara was so busy sewing for other people that she barely had time to mend her husband’s clothes. Aunt Mônica helped her niece, of course, and when Cândido arrived home in the evening, she could tell from his face that he had earned nothing. He would have supper, then go straight out again, on the trail of some fugitive or other. On a few rare occasions, a blindness brought on by necessity caused him to pick the wrong man and pounce on a loyal slave going about his master’s business. Once, he captured a free black man, and although he apologized profusely, he was soundly beaten by the man’s relatives.
“That’s all you need!” cried Aunt Mônica when she saw him and after he had told them about his mistake and its consequences. “Give it up, Candinho, find another way of earning a living, another job.”
Candinho would have much preferred to do something else, although not for the same reasons, but simply for the sake of variety; it would be a way of changing skins or personality. Alas, he could find no job that could be learned quickly.
Nature continued to take its course, the fetus was growing and was soon a weight in its mother’s belly. The eighth month came, a month of anxieties and privations, then the ninth, but I won’t go into that. It would be best simply to describe its effects, which could not have been crueler.
“No, Aunt Mônica!” roared Candinho, rejecting a piece of advice I find painful even to write down, although not as painful as it was for Candinho to hear. “Never!”
It was in the last week of the final month when Aunt Mônica advised the couple that, as soon as the baby was born, they should take it to the foundling wheel at the convent on Rua dos Barbonos, where they took in abandoned babies. Abandoned. There could have been no crueler word for those two young parents expecting their first child, looking forward to kissing and caring for it, watching it laugh and grow and prosper and play . . . In what sense would that child be abandoned? Candinho stared wild-eyed at the aunt and ended up thumping the table hard with his fist, so hard that the rickety old table almost collapsed. Clara intervened.
“Auntie doesn’t mean any harm, Candinho.”
“Of course I don’t,” retorted Aunt Mônica. “I’m just saying what I think would be best for you. You owe money for everything; you’ve no meat in the house, not even any beans. If you’re not bringing in a wage, how is the family to grow? After all, there’s still time. Later on, when you’ve found some steadier job, any future children will receive as much care and attention as this one, possibly more. He’ll be well cared for, he’ll lack for nothing. Giving him to the foundling hospital isn’t like abandoning him on the shore or on a dung heap. They don’t kill children there, no child dies of neglect, whereas here, living in poverty, he’s sure to die . . .”
With a shrug, Aunt Mônica turned and went to her room. She had hinted at such a solution before, but this was the first time she had spoken with such candor and such passion, or so callously, if you like. Clara reached out her hand to her husband, as if to comfort him; Cândido Neves pulled a face and muttered something about her aunt being mad. This tender scene was interrupted by someone banging on the street door.
“Who is it?” asked Cândido.
It was the landlord, to whom they owed three months’ rent, and who had come in person to threaten his tenant. His tenant invited him in.
“That won’t be necessary . . .”
“No, please, come in.”
The landlord came in, but would not accept the proffered chair; he glanced around at the furniture to see if there was anything worth pawning, but found very little. He had com
e for the unpaid rent and could wait no longer; if they didn’t pay up in the next five days, he would put them out in the street. He hadn’t worked hard all his life just to give others an easy time of it. To look at him, you would never think he was a landlord, but his words gave the lie to his face, and, rather than argue, poor Cândido Neves chose to say nothing. He gave a slight bow, which was both promise and plea. The landlord would not be swayed.
“Pay me in five days, or you’re out!” he repeated, reaching for the door handle and leaving.
Candinho also left. At such moments, he never gave in to despair. He always relied on being able to get some loan or other, even though he didn’t know how or from whom. He also went back to check the newspaper advertisements. There were several, some already old, but he had looked for all those runaways before with no success. He spent a few profitless hours, then returned home. At the end of the fourth day, he had still not managed to scrape together any money, and so he decided to try his luck with friends of the landlord, but all he received was that same order to quit the house.
The situation was critical. They couldn’t find alternative lodgings or anyone who might take them in; they would definitely be out on the street. They had not, however, counted on Aunt Mônica. She had somehow or other found accommodation for the three of them in the house of a rich old lady, who promised to let them have the use of four rooms, behind the coach house and looking out onto a courtyard. Even more astutely, Aunt Mônica had said nothing to the couple, so that, in his despair, Cândido Neves would be forced to take the baby to the foundling wheel and find some steadier way of earning money; so that he would, in short, mend his ways. She listened patiently to Clara’s complaints, but without offering her any consolation, either. On the day they were evicted, she would surprise them with the news of this gift and they would sleep far better than expected.
The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis Page 97
