The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  I did not feel frightened when I left him, nor full of anticipated remorse. My initial reaction to what he had confided in me vanished, leaving only the story itself, and I felt curiosity bubbling up inside me. X. had spoken of Maria as a chaste wife; he had made no allusion to her physical charms, but my youth required no direct references. Alone in the street, I summoned up her youthful figure, her gestures, at once robust and languid, and I felt more and more excited. Once at home, I wrote her a long, rambling letter, only to tear it up half an hour later. Then I went to supper, and afterward to X.’s house.

  Dusk was coming on. He was sitting in his rocking chair, and I occupied my usual place, looking now at the room, now at the hill opposite. Maria arrived later than usual, and seemed so exhausted that she took no part in our conversation. She sat down in a chair and nodded off. Then she played the piano a little and left the room.

  “Maria woke this morning determined to collect money for the war,” X. said. “I pointed out that not everyone would necessarily share her views. Fortunately, she must have thought better of it. She gets these crazy notions sometimes . . .”

  “But why shouldn’t she collect money?”

  “Because she shouldn’t! Besides, the war with Paraguay, well, I’m not saying it isn’t like other wars, but I’m really not that keen. At first I was, when López captured the Marquês de Olinda, yes, I was angry to begin with, then that feeling faded, and now, frankly, I think we would have been much better off allying ourselves with López against the Argentinians.”

  “I prefer the Argentinians.”

  “Oh, I like them, too, but, in the interests of our own people, it would have been better to stick with López.”

  “I almost enlisted as a volunteer.”

  “Not me. I wouldn’t enlist, not even if they made me a colonel.”

  He said other things too. I didn’t respond immediately or very clearly or coherently because I had my ears cocked, listening for Maria’s footsteps. I muttered the occasional word, still listening. But that wretch of a girl didn’t come back. I imagined they had quarreled. In the end, I suggested we have a game of ombre.

  “All right,” he said.

  We went into his study. X. put the deck of cards on the table and went to call Maria. I heard a few whispered exchanges, but could only really make out the following words:

  “Come on. It’s only for half an hour.”

  “Do I have to? I’m really not feeling very well.”

  Maria entered the study, yawning. She said she would only play for half an hour, that she had slept badly and had a headache and was hoping to have an early night. She slumped down wearily at the table, and we began the game. I regretted having torn up my letter; I could remember a few passages, which would have explained my feelings with the necessary persuasive warmth. If I had kept it, I would have given it to her then, for she often came out onto the landing to say goodbye and to close the door. That would have been the perfect opportunity and a solution to my crisis.

  After a few minutes, X. got up to fetch some tobacco from a tinplate box on his desk. Maria then did something I can barely put into words. I was sitting on her left, and she suddenly raised her cards to cover her eyes, then, turning to me, she lowered the cards and opened her eyes so wide and with such passion and feeling, that I don’t know how I didn’t step right into them. It all happened very quickly. By the time X. returned, rolling a cigarette, Maria was carefully studying her cards, calculating their value. I must have been shaking, and yet, despite having lost the power of speech, I still managed to make my calculations too. She then calmly uttered one of the usual words of the game, “pass” or “renege.”

  We played for nearly an hour. In the end, Maria really was falling asleep, and X. himself said she had better go to bed. I said good night and went out into the hallway, where I had left my hat and cane. Maria was waiting at the door to the parlor for me to leave, in order to accompany me to the door and close it after me. Before I could go down the stairs, though, she put one arm about my neck, drew me to her, and pressed her lips to mine in a quick, passionate silent kiss. I felt her slip something into my hand.

  “Good night,” she said, closing the door.

  I don’t know how I remained standing. I went down the stairs, with that kiss still on my lips, my eyes on hers, and my hand instinctively clasping whatever it was she had given me. I waited until I was at a safe distance, then, in the first lit street I came to, I went straight over to a streetlamp to see what it was. It was a card from a draper’s shop, an advertisement, with these words written in pencil on the back: “Wait for me tomorrow at the Niterói ferry, at one o’clock.”

  I was in such turmoil that I have no memory of what I did during those first few minutes. My emotions were too many and too tumultuous, and had followed so close upon one another that I barely knew what to think. I walked as far as Largo de São Francisco de Paula. I reread the message on the card; I quickened my pace, then stopped again, and a couple of policemen on patrol may well have suspected that I was up to no good. Fortunately, despite those tumultuous feelings, I also felt hungry and went to dine at the Hotel dos Príncipes. I didn’t fall asleep until dawn and was up again at six. The morning passed as slowly as certain slow deaths. I reached the ferry at ten minutes to one, and found Maria already waiting for me, swathed in a cape and wearing a blue veil over her face. A boat was just about to leave and so we went on board.

  The sea welcomed us warmly. There were few passengers at that hour. Other boats and birds passed, and the bright sky seemed to be celebrating our first meeting. What we said was so rushed and so confused that I can only remember half a dozen words, and none of them was the name of X. or even a reference to him. However, we both felt that we were traitors: I was betraying my friend and she her friend and protector. However, even if we hadn’t felt like traitors, I don’t think we would have mentioned him, we had so little time for what really mattered to us. Maria seemed quite different from the woman I thought I knew as she talked about me and about her, as tenderly as was seemly in a public place, but certainly as tenderly as possible. We clasped each other’s hands, devoured each other with our eyes, and our hearts were doubtless beating at the same frantic pace. That at least was my impression when we parted, after the round trip to Niterói and São Domingos. I invited her to disembark at both those points, but she refused; on the way back, I suggested taking a closed cab: “What kind of woman do you think I am?” she asked with a modest look that quite transformed her. And so we said goodbye, having, first, arranged to meet again, and with me swearing that I would, as usual, come to see them both that night.

  Since I have not taken up my pen in order to describe my happiness, I will leave aside the most delightful part of the affair, with its meetings and letters and conversations, as well as the dreams and hopes, the infinite longings and resurgent desires. Such affairs are like almanacs, which, for all their changes, always bring us the same days and months, with their never-changing names and saints. Our almanac lasted only three months, with no third quarters or sunsets. Maria had many lovely qualities; she was all life, all movement. She was, as I said, from Bahia, but had been brought up in Rio Grande do Sul, in the countryside, near the frontier. When I asked about her first meeting with X. at the Teatro Provisório, where she had danced to the sound of a tambourine, she said it was true, that she had gone there dressed as a Spanish señorita and wearing a mask; and when I asked her to dress up like that for me, minus the mask, or simply put on a Bahian costume to dance a lundu, she spoke like someone warning of a great danger:

  “It might drive you crazy.”

  “X. didn’t go crazy.”

  “But he’s still not quite in his right mind,” said Maria, laughing. “I would only have to do this . . .”

  And, standing up in one quick movement, she gave a single gyration of her hips, which was enough to make my blood seethe.

  The three months soon ended, as is the way with such quarterly periods
. One day, Maria failed to turn up for our rendezvous. She was usually so punctual that I felt quite dizzy with anxiety when the appointed time passed. Five, ten, fifteen minutes; then twenty, then thirty, then forty . . . I won’t say how many times I paced up and down, in the parlor, in the hallway, watching and listening, until it became clear that she would not come. I’ll save you a description of my despair, of how I rolled about on the floor, babbling, screaming, crying. When I grew tired, I wrote her a long letter and hoped that she would write to me as well, explaining her absence. I did not send my letter, and that night I went to their house as usual.

  Maria explained that she had failed to meet me as arranged because she was afraid of being seen and followed by someone who had been pursuing her for some time. Indeed, I had already heard about some neighbor or other who was determinedly courting her; she told me that once he had followed her right to the door of my house. I believed this and suggested a different meeting place, but she thought this unwise. It would, she felt, be best to abandon our meetings until all suspicions had died down. She would stay at home. At the time, I did not grasp the simple truth, namely, that her initial ardor had faded. Maria changed completely then. You cannot imagine how different that lovely creature became, for she contained both fire and ice, and could be hotter and colder than anyone I know.

  When I realized that it was all over, I decided not to go back to the house, but still I did not lose hope. For me, it was a question of mental effort. Imagination, which has the ability to make past pleasures present again, easily convinced me that it really was possible to recover those first few weeks. Five days later, I returned, feeling unable to live without her.

  X. welcomed me with his broad, childlike smile, his pure eyes, and his firm, sincere handshake; he asked why I had not been to see him. I blamed this on a slight fever and, in order to explain my still-visible unease, claimed that it had left me with a faint headache. Maria understood what lay behind this, but showed me no affection, no pity, and, when I left, she did not accompany me to the door as she used to.

  All this only increased my anguish. I considered suicide and, out of romantic symmetry, thought of taking the ferry to Niterói—the scene of our first lovers’ tryst—and jumping overboard in the middle of the bay. I did not pursue this or any other such plan. Chancing to meet my old friend Barreto, I immediately told him everything. I needed someone as a sounding board. I swore him to secrecy and asked him most especially not to say anything to Raimunda. That same night, she knew everything. Raimunda was an adventurous soul, fond of plans and projects. She did not perhaps particularly care about me or her friend, but she saw the situation as providing her with a mission, an occupation, and was determined to reconcile us; or so at least I found out later, and that is what gives rise to this document.

  She spoke to Maria several times. At first Maria denied everything, but ended up confessing, saying that she now regretted her foolishness. She doubtless used various circumlocutions and synonyms, vague, truncated phrases, sometimes mere gestures. I only know what Raimunda told me, for she summoned me to her house and recounted her efforts and was clearly very pleased with herself.

  “But don’t lose hope,” she concluded. “I told her you might kill yourself.”

  “And I might.”

  “But don’t do it just yet. Wait.”

  The following day I saw in the newspaper a list of the citizens who had gone to the army headquarters the previous day to sign up as volunteers to fight for their country, and on that list was X.’s name, with the rank of captain. I couldn’t believe this at first, but all the newspapers said the same thing, and one of the papers referred to X.’s family, to his father, who had been an officer in the navy, and to the new captain’s distinguished, manly figure. It was definitely him.

  My first reaction was one of pleasure; Maria and I would be left alone. She was hardly likely to become a camp follower and head south with him. Then I remembered what he had said to me once about the war, and I found it very strange that he should enlist, even though this could be explained by his love of generous acts and his innate nobility of spirit. He had told me that he wouldn’t go even if he was made a colonel, and now here he was accepting the rank of captain. And what about Maria? How could he, who loved her so much, suddenly be parted from her, when there was no strong sense of patriotism leading him off to war?

  I hadn’t been to their house for three weeks. The news of his enlistment was justification enough for an immediate visit and spared me having to make any excuses. I had breakfast and set off. Before going in, I put on a suitably grave face. After a few minutes, X. joined me in the parlor. His grim, withdrawn expression gave the lie to his words, which attempted to be light and cheery, and he looked dreadfully pale. He held out his hand, saying:

  “So you’ve come to see the captain of volunteers?”

  “I’ve come to hear you tell me it’s not true.”

  “What do you mean? It is true. I don’t quite know why, maybe it was just the latest news from the front . . . Why don’t you come with me?”

  “So it is true.”

  “It is.”

  After a few moments of silence, I managed to speak, and my hesitation was in part sincere, because I really didn’t know quite what to say, and in part feigned, in the hope that I would convince him of my genuine concern. I said something about it being much better if he didn’t go, that he must think of his mother. X. replied that his mother heartily approved; she was, after all, the widow of a military man. He tried to smile, but his features remained stiff and stony. He could not bring himself to look at me, and his eyes did not rest on anything for very long. We talked very little, and then he stood up and said he had some business to deal with, but asked me to come back and see him. At the door, he said rather awkwardly:

  “Come and have supper one evening, before I leave.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Come tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Or today, if you like.”

  “No, tomorrow.”

  I was about to ask him to remember me to Maria, as was only natural and necessary, but I could not get up the courage. Downstairs, I wished I had. I reviewed our conversation, and thought how embarrassed and hesitant I must have seemed; he, on the other hand, had come across as cold and rather arrogant. There was something else too. Both when he greeted me and when we said goodbye, his handshake had not been as firm as it usually was.

  That same night, Barreto came to see me, stunned by that morning’s news and asking me what I knew. I said I knew nothing, but told him about my visit to X., about our conversation, but not my suspicions.

  “It might just be a misunderstanding,” he said after a moment.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Raimunda told me today that she had spoken to Maria, who, at first, denied everything, then confessed and declared that she had no intention of resuming her relationship with you.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “But it seems that the third time this happened, he was listening in the small room next door. Maria ran to tell Raimunda that he had changed completely, and Raimunda said she would sound him out, but I told her not to; then I read the list in the newspapers. Later, I saw him walking down the street, and, although he didn’t seem his usual serene self, he was striding out as energetically as usual.”

  I was very shaken by this news, which confirmed my own impression, but I decided nevertheless to go to supper the following evening. Barreto wanted to come, too, but I realized that he simply wanted to keep me company, and so I put him off.

  X. had said nothing to Maria. I found them both in the parlor, and I cannot recall a more uncomfortable situation. I shook them both by the hand, but avoided her eyes, as I think she avoided mine. He certainly didn’t look at either of us. He struck a match and lit a cigarette. Over supper, he chatted as naturally as he could, but struggled to shake off his coldness. His face looked more strained than it had the previous day. To
explain his possible nervousness, he told me that he was due to embark at the end of the week and that, as the time approached, he felt less and less inclined to leave home.

  “Once I’ve crossed the bar, though, I’ll be myself again, and on the battlefield I’ll be the man I have to be.”

  He spoke in a rather stiff, emphatic way. I noticed that Maria had dark shadows under her eyes; I found out later that she had wept profusely and, the night before, had pleaded with him not to go. She had only learned of his decision from the newspapers, which proved that his reasons went beyond mere patriotism. She did not speak during supper, and her grief would have been enough to explain her silence, rather than any other personal guilt. X., on the contrary, talked a great deal, chattering on about the battalions, the new officers, the likelihood of victory, and telling countless, disconnected anecdotes and rumors. He occasionally tried to laugh, but he looked so gloomy when he made a joke about how he would, of course, return from the war a general, that he did not attempt another. The supper ended miserably; we smoked a cigarette, and he began again to talk about the war, but, by then, the topic was exhausted. Before leaving, I invited him to come and have supper with me.

  “No, I can’t. All my evenings are taken up.”

  “Come and have lunch, then.”

  “No, really, I can’t. I will do one thing, though. I’ll reserve the third day after my return from Paraguay entirely for you.”

  I still believe that those words meant that his first two days at home would be reserved for his mother and for Maria; and this should have dispelled any suspicions I had about the secret reasons behind his decision. It did not. He asked me to choose a souvenir, a book, for example. I chose instead a recent photograph of him, taken at his mother’s request, showing him in his captain’s uniform. Hypocritically, I asked him to sign it, which he did: “A gift from X., captain of volunteers, to his loyal friend Simão de Castro . . .” His face had grown still stonier, his gaze still grimmer. He nervously smoothed his mustache, and with that, we said goodbye.