The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  They resumed their life together and were as happy as they had been at the start, he would have said even happier. So strong was his wife’s passion for him that he came to love her as he had before. They lived like this for two years. By then his ardor had waned, and a few fleeting love affairs came between them. Contrary to what she had said, Maria Cora forgave him these minor flings, which, besides, were not as long-lasting or as important as the Dolores affair. They did have quarrels, though, major ones. There were violent scenes. It seems that, more than once, she even threatened to kill herself; but, although she didn’t lack the necessary courage to do so, she made no actual attempt on her life, because it would have grieved her to leave the very cause of her distress, namely, her husband. João da Fonseca realized this and possibly exploited the power he had over his wife.

  Politics further complicated this situation. João da Fonseca was on the side of the revolution, knew several of its leaders, and personally detested some of their opponents. Because of certain family ties, Maria Cora was against the Federalists. These opposing views were not enough to cause them to part, nor can it be said that it soured their life together. She, who was passionate about everything, was no less passionate in condemning the revolution, calling its leaders and officials by the very coarsest of names; and he, equally given to excess, responded with equal loathing, and yet these political tiffs would merely have added to their numerous domestic disagreements had not a new Dolores appeared on the scene—this time a woman called Prazeres, who was neither Chilean nor an acrobat—thus reviving the bitter times they had lived through before. Prazeres had connections with the rebels, not only political, but sentimental, for she was married to a Federalist. I met her shortly afterward, and she was, indeed, a beautiful, elegant woman; and since João da Fonseca was a handsome, seductive man, they seemed fated to fall passionately in love, and so it was. Various other things happened, some graver than others, until one decisive incident brought about the couple’s final separation.

  They had been discussing this for some time, but, despite Maria Cora having sworn to the contrary, a reconciliation was still not impossible, again thanks to her aunt’s intervention. She had suggested to her niece that she go and live for a few months in Rio or São Paulo. Then something very sad occurred. In a moment of madness, João da Fonseca threatened Maria Cora with a whip. According to another version, he tried to strangle her. I prefer to believe the first version, and that the second was invented to cast a coarse, depressing light on João da Fonseca’s violence. Maria Cora did not speak to her husband again. The separation was immediate, and she traveled to Rio de Janeiro with her aunt, having first, quite amicably, sorted out the couple’s financial affairs. Besides, the aunt herself was very rich.

  João da Fonseca and Prazeres went on to live a life full of adventures, which I will not go into here. Only one event impinges directly on my story. Some time after the separation, João da Fonseca had enlisted with the rebels. However strong his political passions, they would not have been enough to make him take up arms had Prazeres not issued a kind of challenge; that, at least, is what his friends say, although the matter remains obscure. According to their version, Prazeres, exasperated with their troops’ repeated losses, told Fonseca that she was going to disguise herself as a man, don a soldier’s uniform, and go and fight for the revolution, and she would have been perfectly capable of doing this too. Fonseca told her this was utter madness, and then she proposed that he should go in her stead; that would be a real proof of his love for her.

  “Haven’t I given you enough proof?”

  “Yes, but that would be a far greater proof than all the rest, and would keep me bound to you until death.”

  “Are you not already bound to me until death?” he asked, laughing.

  “No.”

  That may be what happened. Prazeres was, indeed, an impulsive, imperious woman and knew how to bind a man to her with bonds of steel. The Federalist, whom she abandoned for João da Fonseca, did everything he could to get her back, then moved east, where, it’s said, he lives a wretched life, that his hair has turned gray and he has aged twenty years, and wants nothing more to do with women or politics. In the end, João da Fonseca gave in; she even begged him to let her go, too, and, if necessary, to fight alongside him; but he refused. The revolution would soon triumph, he said; once the government forces had been vanquished, he would return to the estate in Rio Grande, where she would wait for him.

  “No,” she said, “I’ll wait for you in Porto Alegre.”

  Chapter IV

  Just how long it took for me to fall in love is of no importance, but not very long. My love grew rapidly and vigorously and eventually became so all-consuming that I could not keep it to myself and, one night, I resolved to declare my love to her; however, her aunt, who could normally be relied on to doze off after about nine o’clock (she woke at four), did not fall asleep at all and, even if she had, I would probably not have said anything; I could not speak and, once out in the street, I felt as dizzy as I had when I fell in love for the very first time.

  “Be careful not to fall, Senhor Correia,” said her aunt when I went out onto the veranda, having said my goodbyes.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

  I had a bad night and slept for, at most, two hours, and then only fitfully. By five o’clock I was up and awake.

  “I must put an end to this now!” I cried.

  The truth is that, with me, Maria Cora was always kind and understanding, but never anything more, but then that is precisely what made her so attractive. All the other loves in my life had been so easy. I had never met with any resistance, nor left with any regret, or only a little sadness, perhaps, a touch of nostalgia. This time I felt I was in an iron grip. Maria Cora was so full of life; beside her, it seemed as though the chairs themselves could walk and the figures on the carpet could move their eyes. Add to this a strong dose of tenderness and grace. The finishing touch was her aunt’s evident fondness for her, which made of Maria Cora an angel. A banal comparison, I know, but I have no other.

  I decided to take drastic action and to keep away from Engenho Velho, and I did so for many long days, for two or three weeks. I tried to distract myself and forget her, but to no avail. I began to experience her absence as one would that of a loved one; and yet still I resisted and did not go back. The longer the absence, though, the deeper my love, and so I decided that I would return one night, although I might not have done so had I not met Maria Cora in the same shop on Rua da Quitanda where I had gone with my stopped watch.

  “Oh, so you come here too?” she said when she came into the shop.

  “I do.”

  “I need to have my watch repaired. But why haven’t you been back to see us?”

  “Yes, why haven’t you been back?” echoed her aunt.

  “Business affairs,” I murmured, “but I was thinking of coming this evening.”

  “No, don’t come this evening, come tomorrow,” said Maria Cora. “We’re out tonight.”

  I seemed to read in those last words an invitation to declare my love, and in her first words some indication that she had missed me. And so the next day I went to Engenho Velho. Maria Cora welcomed me as warmly as ever. The poet was there, telling me in verse how the aunt had sighed for me. I again became a frequent visitor, and resolved to declare myself.

  I mentioned earlier that she had probably understood or guessed my feelings, just as any other woman would. Now she must definitely have understood, and yet she did not drive me away. On the contrary, she seemed to enjoy the feeling of being deeply loved.

  Shortly after that night, I wrote her a letter before going to Engenho Velho. She seemed slightly withdrawn; her aunt explained that she had received troubling news from Rio Grande. I did not connect this with her marriage, and tried to cheer her up. She, however, responded merely politely. On the veranda, before I left, I handed her the letter and was about to say, “Please read it,” but my voice failed me. I coul
d see that she was slightly embarrassed, and, to avoid saying what was best said in writing, I merely bowed and walked away through the garden. You can imagine the kind of night I spent, and the day that followed was, of course, the same, until evening came. Nevertheless, I did not immediately go back to her house; I decided to wait three or four days, not in the expectation that she would write to me, but to give her time to consider her response. I was sure her response would be a positive one, for, lately, she had treated me in a friendly, almost inviting manner.

  I did not last the full four days; indeed, I barely managed three. On the evening of the third day I went back to Engenho Velho. I would not be lying if I said that I was trembling with emotion when I arrived. I found her at the piano, playing for the poet; her aunt, seated in her armchair, was deep in thought, and I was so giddy with excitement that I barely noticed her.

  “Come in, Senhor Correia, but don’t fall on top of me.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  Maria Cora did not stop playing, but when she saw me, she said:

  “Forgive me for not shaking your hand, but I’m acting as muse for this gentleman here.”

  Minutes later, she came over and shook my hand so warmly that I saw in that a response to my letter and was almost on the point of thanking her. A few minutes passed, fifteen or twenty. Then, saying that there was a book she wanted to ask me about, we both went over to where she had left it lying on top of the sheet music on the piano. She opened it, and, inside, was a piece of paper.

  “When you were here the other night, you gave me this letter. Could you tell me what it says?”

  “Can you not guess?”

  “I might guess wrongly.”

  “No, you have guessed correctly.”

  “Yes, but, even though I’m separated from my husband, I’m still a married woman. You love me, don’t you? Well, you may assume that I love you, too, but, as I say, I’m still a married woman.”

  Having said this, she returned the letter to me unopened. Had we been alone, I might have read it out to her, but the presence of the other guests stopped me. Besides, there was no need. Maria Cora’s answer was definitive, or so it seemed to me. I took the letter and, before I put it away, asked:

  “So you don’t want to read it?”

  “No.”

  “Not even to see what I said?”

  “No.”

  “What if I were to go and fight your husband, kill him, and then come back?” I said, growing ever more frantic.

  “Would you actually do such a thing?”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t believe anyone could ever love me that much,” she concluded with a smile. “But, be careful, people are looking at us.”

  With that, she moved away and joined her aunt and the poet. I stood there for a few seconds with the book in my hand, as if I really were studying it, then I put it down and went and sat opposite them. They were talking about what was happening in Rio Grande, about the battles between Federalists and Legalists and their varying fates. What I felt then cannot be put into words, not, that is, by me, for I am no novelist. It was a kind of vertigo, a delirium, a horrible, lucid image, a battle followed by victory. I imagined myself on the battlefield, alongside other men, fighting the Federalists and finally killing João da Fonseca, before returning to Rio and marrying his widow. Maria Cora had contributed to this seductive thought. After her refusal to read my letter, she seemed to me more beautiful than ever, especially as she did not seem annoyed or offended, but treated me as affectionately as before, possibly even more so. I could have drawn from this a double and contradictory impression—either tacit acquiescence or complete indifference—but I saw only the first of these and left the house in a state of utter madness.

  What I decided to do then really was the act of a madman. Maria Cora’s words—“I don’t believe anyone could ever love me that much”—were still ringing in my ears like a challenge. I thought about them all night and the following day, I went back to Engenho Velho. As soon as the opportunity arose to tell her of my resolve, I did so.

  “I’m leaving everything I care about, including peace, with the sole aim of proving to you that I love you and want you solely and purely for myself. I am going off to fight.”

  Maria Cora looked utterly astonished. I understood then that she really did love me with a genuine passion, and that if she were widowed, she would not marry anyone else. I swore again that I was going off to the war in the South. Deeply moved, she held out her hand to me. This was pure romanticism. When I was a child, my parents believed that such actions were the only real proof of love, and my mother would tell me stories in verse of knights-errant who, out of love for their faith and for their lady, journeyed to the Holy Land to liberate Christ’s tomb. Yes, pure romanticism.

  Chapter V

  I traveled south. The battles between Legalists and rebels were continuous and bloody, and this encouraged me. And yet, since no political passion prompted me to enter the fight, I must confess that, for a moment, I felt discouraged and hesitant. I wasn’t afraid of death, you understand, but I nevertheless loved life, which is, perhaps, a synonymous state; whatever it was, it was not so overwhelming as to cause me to hesitate for very long. In the city of Rio Grande I met a friend, to whom I had written saying that I was going there for political reasons, although without specifying what those were. He wanted to know more.

  “My reasons are, of course, secret,” I responded, trying to smile.

  “Fine, but there’s one thing I should know, just one, because I have no idea of your views on the matter, since you’ve never told me. Whose side are you on: the Legalists’ or the rebels’?”

  “Oh, really! I would hardly have written to you if I wasn’t on the side of the Legalists. I would have come here under cover.”

  “Have you some secret commission from the marshal?”

  “No.”

  He could get nothing more out of me, but I had to tell him what my plans were, if not my motives. When he found out that my intention was to enlist with the volunteers fighting the rebels, he didn’t believe me and perhaps suspected that I really had been charged with some secret plan. I said nothing that could have suggested such a thing, but he wasted no time in trying to dissuade me; he himself was a Legalist and spoke of the enemy with anger and loathing. Once he had recovered from his surprise, however, he accepted my decision, which he found all the nobler because it was not inspired by party politics. He said many fine, heroic words on the subject, words that would raise the spirits of anyone already eager for a fight. I was not such a one, or only for personal reasons, which had now grown more urgent. I had just received a letter from Maria Cora’s aunt, sending me their news and her niece’s best wishes, all expressed in very general terms, but imbued, I thought, with genuine affection.

  I went to Porto Alegre, where I enlisted and set off to join the campaign. I said nothing about myself that might arouse any curiosity, but it was difficult to conceal my social status, where I came from, and my journey there in order to fight the rebels. A legend soon sprang up around me. I was an extremely wealthy republican, an enthusiast for the cause, ready to give my life for the republic a thousand times over—if I had that many lives—and certainly resolutely prepared to sacrifice the one life I had. I allowed these rumors to grow and off I went. When I asked in which of the rebel forces João da Fonseca could be found, someone interpreted this as a desire for some act of personal revenge; someone else thought I was a spy for the rebels hoping to enter into secret communication with Fonseca. Those who knew about his relationship with Prazeres imagined I was an old lover of hers wanting to exact revenge. All these suppositions died, leaving only a belief in my political fervor. The rumor that had me down as a spy was more problematic, but, fortunately, it was the product of two men’s nighttime lucubrations and soon vanished.

  I took with me a picture of Maria Cora, which she herself had given me one night shortly before my departure, complete with a charming
little dedication. As I said before, this was pure romanticism; once I had taken that first step, the others followed of their own accord. Add to this my male pride, and you will understand how an ordinary, indifferent citizen of Rio could become a hardened soldier in the Rio Grande campaign.

  I won’t describe any battles, though, nor write about the revolution, which was of no interest to me, except for the opportunity it gave me, and for the odd blow I dealt it in my own small way. João da Fonseca was my rebel. After taking part in the Battle of Sarandi and Cochila Negra, I heard that he had been killed in some skirmish or other; later, I heard that he was fighting alongside Gumercindo, and had been taken prisoner and sent to Porto Alegre; but even this was not true. One day, I became separated from my regiment, along with two comrades, and we came across another Legalist regiment that was just setting off to defend Encruzilhada, which had been under attack by the Federalist forces; I introduced myself to the commander and joined his company. There I discovered that João da Fonseca was among those Federalists; the other men told me all about him, about his love affairs and how he was separated from his wife.

  The idea of killing him in the hurly-burly of battle had something fantastical about it; I didn’t even know if such duels were possible in battle, when one man’s strength should be part of a single force obedient to one commander. It also often occurred to me that I was about to commit a personal crime, and, believe me, this was not something I took lightly. However, the thought of Maria Cora bestowed on me something like an encouraging blessing, absolving me of guilt. I threw myself into combat. I did not know João da Fonseca; apart from what others had told me, I could only remember a portrait I had seen of him in Engenho Velho; if he had not greatly changed, it was likely that I would recognize him in a crowd. But would such an encounter be possible? The battles I had already been involved in made me think that it would certainly not be easy.