The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  It was neither easy nor brief. In the Battle of Encruzilhada, I think I bore myself with the necessary courage and discipline, and I should point out that I was becoming accustomed to life in this civil war. The hate-filled words I heard were very potent. Both sides fought with great ardor, and the passion I sensed in those on my own side began to infect me too. I had heard my name read out in a report of the day’s fighting, and had received personal praise as well, praise which, then and now, I felt was well deserved. But let’s get back to what really matters, which is to finish this tale.

  In that battle, I felt rather like Stendhal’s hero at the Battle of Waterloo, the difference being that it was a much smaller arena. For this reason—and also because I don’t wish to linger over facile memories—I will say only that I did succeed in killing João da Fonseca in person. It’s true, too, that I escaped being killed by him. I still bear the scar on my head from the wound he inflicted on me. The fight between us was short-lived. If it doesn’t seem too much like something out of a novel, I would say that João da Fonseca understood my motives and foresaw the result.

  After a few minutes of hand-to-hand combat in one corner of the town, João da Fonseca fell prostrate to the ground. He tried to and did fight on for a while; I gave him no opportunity to retaliate, as this, I reasoned, would lead to my own defeat, if “reason” is the right term to use, for I was not thinking rationally at all. I was blinded by the blood in which I had bathed him, and deafened by the clamor and tumult of battle. Amid the killing and screaming, our side quickly became masters of the field.

  When I saw that João da Fonseca was well and truly dead, I returned briefly to the fray; my intoxicated state had somewhat diminished, and my primary motivation came back to me, as if it were the one and only. Maria Cora’s face appeared before me like an approving, forgiving smile; it all happened very fast.

  You have probably read about the three or four women who were captured too. One of them was Prazeres. When battle was done, Prazeres saw her lover’s body, and her reaction filled me with a mixture of loathing and envy. She lay down on the ground and put her arms around him; the tears she shed, the words she spoke, made some of those present laugh; others, if not moved, were surprised. As I say, I was filled at first with both envy and loathing, but that dual feeling also disappeared, leaving not even surprise, and I, too, ended up laughing. After honoring her lover’s death with her grief, Prazeres remained the Federalist she was; she had not put on a soldier’s uniform, as she had said she would when she challenged João da Fonseca, but she wanted to be taken prisoner along with the other rebels and to remain with them.

  Obviously, I didn’t leave the government forces at once, I went on to fight a few more battles, but eventually my prime reason for being there prevailed, and I put down my weapons. During the time I was enlisted, I wrote only two letters to Maria Cora, one shortly after taking up that new life, the other after the Battle of Encruzilhada; in that last letter, I said nothing about her husband, nor about his death, nor even that I had seen him. I announced only that the civil war was likely to end soon. In neither of those letters did I make the slightest allusion to my feelings or to the motive for my actions; nevertheless, for anyone who knew about either, the meaning would have been clear. Maria Cora replied only to the first letter, serenely, but not indifferently. It was clear—at least to me—that, although promising nothing, she was grateful, or, if not grateful, admiring. Gratitude and admiration could lead to love.

  I did not say—and I still don’t know quite how to say it—that at Encruzilhada, after João da Fonseca had died, I attempted to cut off his head, but I didn’t really want to, and, in the end, I didn’t. My object was quite different, more romantic. Any genuine realists among you must forgive me, but there was a touch of reality in this, too, and I acted in accordance with my state of mind: instead, I cut off a lock of his hair, as the proof of his death that I would take to his widow.

  Chapter VI

  When I returned to Rio de Janeiro, many months had passed since the Battle of Encruzilhada. However hard I tried to avoid all publicity and to disappear into the shadows, my name had appeared not only in official reports, but also in telegrams and letters. I received various letters of congratulations and inquiry. Please note that I did not return to Rio de Janeiro at once; I preferred to stay in São Paulo and avoid any possible celebrations. One day, when least expected, I took the train to Rio and went straight to the boardinghouse in Catete.

  I didn’t immediately seek out Maria Cora. It seemed best that she should learn of my arrival from the newspapers. I had no one who could tell her, and I couldn’t bring myself to go to some editor’s desk and announce my return from Rio Grande; I wasn’t a passenger newly disembarked, whose name would appear on the ship’s list. Two days passed; on the third day, I opened a newspaper and saw my name. The article announced that I had come from São Paulo after being involved in the fighting in Rio Grande; it mentioned certain battles, and generally praised my conduct, and, finally, mentioned that I was once again living in the same boardinghouse in Catete. Since my landlord was the only person to whom I had spoken briefly about my experiences, he could have been the one who submitted these facts, although he denied this. I began to receive a few visitors. They all wanted to know everything, but I said very little.

  Among the various visiting cards, I received two from Maria Cora and her aunt, who both sent words of welcome. Nothing more was needed; all that remained was for me to go and thank them, and I prepared to do so; however, on the very day I had decided to visit them in Engenho Velho, I was filled with a sense of foreboding . . . but why? How to explain my feelings of apprehension whenever I recalled Maria Cora’s husband, who had died by my hand? The mere thought of what I would feel in her presence overwhelmed me. Given my main motive for enlisting, such reticence may seem hard to comprehend, but, to understand the unease that made me keep postponing the visit, you have only to consider that, even though I had been defending myself against her husband and had killed him in order not to be killed myself, he was still her husband. Finally, though, I plucked up courage and went to her house.

  Maria Cora was dressed in mourning. She received me kindly, and both she and her aunt repeated their congratulations. We spoke about the civil war, about life in Rio Grande, and a little about politics, but nothing more. Not a word was said about João da Fonseca. When I left, I wondered if Maria Cora would now be disposed to marry me.

  “I don’t think she would refuse, although she certainly doesn’t single me out for special attention. In fact, she seems rather less friendly than before. Can she have changed?”

  Such were my vague thoughts, and I attributed her altered mood to widowhood, as was only natural. I continued to visit her, ready to allow the first stage of mourning to pass before formally asking for her hand in marriage. There was no need to make any new declaration; she knew how I felt. She continued to welcome me. She asked not a single question about her husband, nor did her aunt, and we spoke no more about the revolution. For my part, I reverted to the way things had been before and, not wishing to waste any time, I played the role of suitor to the full. One day, I asked if she was considering going back to Rio Grande.

  “Not for the moment, no.”

  “But you will go?”

  “Possibly, but I have no definite plans. It’s merely a possibility.”

  After a brief silence, during which I eyed her questioningly, I finally asked if, before she left—assuming she did leave—she would change anything in her life.

  “My life has already changed completely . . .”

  She obviously hadn’t understood me, or so I thought. I tried to explain myself more clearly and wrote her a letter in which I reminded her of that first letter of mine, which she had refused to open and in which I had asked for her hand. Two days later, I gave her this new letter, saying:

  “I’m sure you won’t refuse to read this one.”

  She did not refuse and took the letter. T
his happened as I was leaving, at the door to the parlor. I think I even saw in her face a slight hopeful flicker of excitement. She did not reply in writing, as I had hoped. Three days passed, and by then I was so anxious that I resolved to return to Engenho Velho. On the way there, I imagined all kinds of possible responses: that she would reject me, accept me, put me off, and, if not that second option, then I was prepared to make do with the third one. Alas, she had gone to spend a few days in Tijuca and was not at home. I left, feeling slightly annoyed. It seemed to me that she really didn’t want to marry, but then wouldn’t it be easier for her to say so or to write a letter telling me as much? This thought aroused new hopes in me.

  I still remembered what she had said when she returned that first letter to me and I spoke of my love: “You may assume that I love you, too, but I am still a married woman.” It was clear that she cared for me then, and there was no real reason now to believe the contrary, even though she had grown somewhat cool toward me. Lately, I had come to think that she did still love me, out of vanity, perhaps, or fondness or possibly gratitude too; or so it seemed to me. And yet she did not reply to my second letter, either. When she returned from Tijuca, she was less expansive, possibly sadder too. I was the one who had to raise the matter. Her answer: she was not, for the moment, ready to marry again.

  “But will you marry one day?” I asked after a short silence.

  “By then I’ll be too old.”

  “So it won’t be for years?”

  “My husband might not be dead.”

  I was astonished by this remark.

  “But you’re dressed in deep mourning.”

  “I read and was told that he was dead, but it might not be true. I’ve seen other certain deaths later proven to be false.”

  “If you want absolute certainty,” I said, “I can give it to you.”

  Maria Cora turned very pale. Certainty. Certainty about what? She wanted me to tell her everything—everything. The whole situation had become so painful to me that I hesitated no longer, and, having confessed that it had been my intention to tell her nothing and that I had told no one else, either, I promised to do so now, purely in obedience to her request. And I told her about the battle, in all its phases, the risks taken, the words spoken, and, finally, the death of João da Fonseca. She listened in a state of terrible anguish and distress. She nevertheless managed to master her emotions and ask:

  “Do you swear that you’re telling the truth?”

  “Why would I lie? What I did is enough to prove my sincerity. Tomorrow I will bring you further proof if proof is needed.”

  I took her the lock of hair I had cut from the corpse’s head. I also told her—and I admit that my object was to turn her against the memory of her late husband—I told her of Prazeres’s utter despair and grief. I described her and her tears. Maria Cora listened to me with wide, wild eyes. She still felt jealous. When I showed her the lock of hair, she snatched it from me, kissed it, and wept and wept and wept. I felt it was best if I left—for good this time. Days later, I received a response to my letter; she would not marry me.

  Her answer contained a word that is the sole reason for writing this story: “Please understand that I could not accept the hand of the man who, even out of loyalty, killed my husband.” I compared this with that other word she said to me earlier, when I decided to go into battle, kill him and come back: “I don’t believe anyone could ever love me that much.” And that one word had taken me off to war. Maria Cora now lives as a recluse, paying for a mass to be said for her husband’s soul once a year on the anniversary of the Battle of Encruzilhada. I never saw her again, and, rather less painfully, I never again forgot to wind my watch.

  FUNERAL MARCH

  ONE AUGUST NIGHT in 186*, Deputy Cordovil simply could not get to sleep. He had come home early from the Cassino Fluminense, once the Emperor had left, and, during the ball, he had not felt in the least bit indisposed, either mentally or physically. On the contrary, it had been an excellent evening, made even more excellent by the fact that an old enemy of his, with a weak heart, had died just before ten o’clock, with news of his death reaching the Cassino shortly after eleven.

  You will naturally conclude that he was overjoyed at the man’s death, this being the only kind of revenge available to weak, malicious hearts. Well, there you are wrong; it was not joy, it was relief. This death had been dragging on for months, the kind of death that seems never-ending, grinding, chewing, crushing, and gnawing away at the poor human creature. Cordovil knew of his enemy’s sufferings, for, to console Cordovil for various past insults, certain friends would come and tell him what they saw or knew of the dying man, who was permanently confined to an armchair, enduring long, agonizing nights, with the dawn bringing him no respite and the evening no hope of recovery. Cordovil repaid these friends with the occasional compassionate word, which the bringers of good news would adopt and repeat, rather less sincerely than him. The man’s suffering had ended at last, hence the feeling of relief.

  Such a feeling was not dissimilar to human charity, and, indeed, Cordovil took no pleasure in other people’s woes, except in the world of politics. When he prayed each morning, “Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors . . .” he was not like a friend of his who mouthed the same words but never forgave his debtors; indeed, the friend would usually demand more than was owed, by which I mean that if he ever heard anyone speak ill of another man, he would learn the slander by heart, embellish it, and repeat it to whoever would listen. The next day, though, Jesus’s beautiful words would emerge from those same lips with dutiful charity.

  Cordovil was different; he was always ready to forgive. He may have been somewhat slow in offering his forgiveness, but never obviously so. And besides, slowness has its virtues. It’s no bad thing to mitigate the power of evil. Don’t forget, it was only in the world of politics that the deputy took pleasure in another’s woes, and his dead enemy had been a personal, not a political, enemy. I’ve no idea what the cause of that enmity was, and the man’s name died with him.

  “Poor devil, at least he’s at peace now,” said Cordovil.

  They had gone on to speak of the deceased’s long illness and discussed other deaths in this world. Cordovil thought that Caesar’s death had been by far the best, not because it involved knives, but because it was quick and unexpected.

  “Tu quoque?” asked a colleague, laughing.

  And, picking up the allusion to Caesar’s words, Cordovil retorted:

  “No, but if I had a son, for example, I would want to die at his hands. Parricide is so unusual that it would make the tragedy still more tragic.”

  And the conversation continued in this same sprightly vein. Cordovil left the ball feeling very sleepy and dozed off in his carriage, despite the bumpy ride. When they were almost at his house, he felt the carriage stop and heard the murmur of voices. A man had died, and two policemen were picking him up from where he lay on the ground.

  “Was he murdered?” Cordovil asked the footman, who had climbed down to find out what was happening.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Well, find out.”

  “That fellow over there knows what happened,” said the footman, pointing to a man who was talking to some other people.

  The young man came over to the carriage window and, without being asked, briefly told Cordovil what he had seen.

  “We were both walking along. He was ahead of me and I was just behind. He was whistling a polka, I think. Anyway, just as he was about to cross the street and head off toward the canal, he seemed to stumble, keel over, then fall to the ground unconscious. A doctor came out of a house nearby, examined him, and said that he’d simply dropped down dead. A crowd began to gather, and the police took ages to arrive. They’ve only just come for him now. Do you want to have a look?”

  “
No, thank you. Can we get through now?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Thank you. Come on, Domingos.”

  Domingos climbed back onto his seat, the driver chivied the horses into action, and the carriage continued on to Rua de São Cristóvão, where Cordovil lived.

  Along the way, Cordovil was pondering the death of that stranger. In itself, it was a good death, and compared to that of his personal enemy, an excellent one. The man had been walking along whistling, thinking about who knows what past delights or future hopes, perhaps reliving something already experienced or anticipating some entirely new experience, when death snatched from him both delight and hope and carried him off to his eternal rest. He died painlessly, or, if he did feel any pain, it was probably very brief, like a lightning flash that leaves the darkness still darker.

  He imagined himself in that same situation. What if it had happened to him at the Cassino? He would not have been dancing; at forty, he no longer danced. It could be said that he had only danced until he was twenty. He wasn’t a ladies’ man, and had known only one great love in his life, when he was twenty-five. He had married and been widowed five weeks later, never to marry again. Not that he had lacked for admirers, especially after his grandfather died, leaving him two country estates. He had sold both and, from then on, lived alone; he had made two trips to Europe, and continued his political and social life. Lately, he had seemed rather bored with both, but, having nothing better to do, had not yet abandoned either. He had been appointed minister once, of the navy, I believe, but lasted only seven months in the post. The appointment brought him no glory and his dismissal no regret. He wasn’t ambitious, and was more given to inaction than action.

  But what if he had died suddenly in the Cassino, during a waltz or a quadrille, alive one moment, dead the next? It could have worked out really well. Cordovil imagined the scene, with him lying prone or prostrate, all gaiety extinguished and the dancing at an end . . . or perhaps not. There would be a brief moment of shock, perhaps, or alarm, with the men reassuring the women, and the orchestra continuing to play on for a few moments despite the confusion. There would be no shortage of strong arms to carry him into another room, dead, totally dead.