He embarked on the Saturday. He left Maria enough to live on whether she chose to stay in Rio, Bahia, or in Rio Grande do Sul. She chose Rio Grande and set off three weeks later, to await his return from the war. I did not see her again; she had closed her door to me, just as she had closed her face and heart.
Before a year was out, I learned that he had died in combat, where he bore himself with more courage than skill. I heard it said that he had already lost an arm, and that his shame at being left a cripple probably lay behind his decision to hurl himself on the enemy’s weapons, like someone eager for death. This might be true, because he was quite vain about his handsome appearance, but the cause was doubtless more complicated than that. I also heard that Maria, on her return from Rio Grande, died in Curitiba; others said that she died in Montevideo. Her daughter was only fifteen.
I stayed in Rio with my feelings of remorse and nostalgia, which, later, became only remorse, and have since become admiration, a particular kind of admiration, which isn’t in itself very considerable, but enough to make me feel small, for I was incapable of doing what he did. I never really knew anyone quite like X. But why persist in calling him by that letter? Let us call him by the name he was christened with, Emílio, gentle, strong, simple Emílio.
INTO THE MIRE!
ONE NIGHT, many years ago, a friend and I were strolling about on the terrace of the Teatro de São Pedro de Alcântara, between the second and third act of The Sentence, or Trial by Jury. I only remember the title of the play, nothing more, but it was the title that started us talking about juries and about a story that has stayed with me ever since.
“I was always opposed to trials by jury,” my friend told me. “Not the institution itself, which is very liberal, but because I hate the idea of condemning anyone, and because of those words in the Gospel: ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’ And yet I’ve twice served on a jury. The court was located in what used to be Rua do Aljube, at the end of Rua dos Ourives and the beginning of Ladeira da Conceição.
“I felt so uneasy about passing judgment that, with just two exceptions, I absolved all the prisoners. I really did feel that the other cases had not been proven satisfactorily, and a couple of the trials were very badly handled. The first prisoner I condemned was a previously law-abiding youth, who was accused of having stolen a rather small amount of money by forging a document. He didn’t deny the fact, nor could he, but he did deny that the crime had been his idea or initiative. Someone, whom he did not name, had suggested it as a way of meeting an urgent financial need; but God, who sees into all our hearts, would ensure that the real criminal received his just deserts. He said this unemphatically, sadly, in a barely audible voice, his eyes dull, his face pitifully pale. The prosecutor saw this pallor as a confession of guilt. The defense lawyer, on the other hand, demonstrated that the fellow’s pale, downcast face was proof of innocence maligned.
“I have rarely witnessed a more brilliant debate. The prosecutor’s speech was brief but powerful, and given in a voice apparently filled with indignation and hate. The defense lawyer was clearly very gifted, and yet it turned out that this was his first appearance in court. The court was packed with relatives, colleagues, and friends, all waiting to hear his first speech, and they were not disappointed, for it was admirable and would have saved the prisoner if he could have been saved, and if his guilt had not been plain for all to see. That lawyer died two years later, in 1865. Who can say what we lost with his death! You know, I find it harder to accept the death of a talented young man than that of an old man. But to return to my story. The prosecutor gave his argument and the defense lawyer his counterargument. The judge gave his summing-up, and, having read out all the questions for the jury, handed these over to the foreman, who happened to be me.
“I won’t say what happened in the secrecy of the jury room, and it doesn’t really matter in this particular case, which, I admit, is best left untold. I’ll be brief, though; the third act will be starting soon.
“One of the jury members, a burly, red-haired man, seemed more convinced than anyone of the prisoner’s guilt. The trial was duly discussed, the questions to the jury read out, and votes cast (eleven to one); only the red-haired man seemed uneasy about the outcome. In the end, though, since the vote ensured that the prisoner would be condemned, he declared himself satisfied, saying that it would have been an act of weakness, or worse, if we had let the man off. One of the other jury members, doubtless the only naysayer, offered a few words in the young man’s defense. The red-haired fellow—Lopes by name—responded angrily:
“ ‘What are you talking about, sir? The man’s obviously guilty.’
“ ‘Look, let’s stop this debate, shall we?’ I said, and everyone agreed.
“ ‘I’m not debating, I’m defending my vote,’ Lopes went on. ‘His guilt has been proven beyond doubt. He denies it, because all criminals do, but the fact is that he committed a forgery, and what a pathetic forgery it was! All for the wretched sum of two hundred mil-réis. I mean, if you’re going to commit a crime, then plunge into the mire! If you’re going to get muddy, then into the mire with you!’
“ ‘Into the mire!’ I must confess I was astonished, not that I understood quite what he meant; on the contrary, I neither understood nor approved, which is why I was so shocked. In the end, I got up and knocked on the door of the jury room. The door was opened, I went over to the judge’s table, gave him our verdict, and the prisoner was found guilty. The defense lawyer appealed, but whether the verdict was confirmed or the appeal granted, I don’t know. It was no longer my business.
“When I left the court, I kept thinking about what Lopes had said, and I seemed to understand then. ‘Into the mire’ was tantamount to saying that the thief was worse than a thief, because he was a worthless thief, a thief of nothing at all. I came up with this explanation on the corner of Rua de São Pedro, while I was still heading down Rua dos Ourives. I even retraced my steps a little, to see if I could find Lopes and shake his hand, but there was no sign of him. The following day, when I read the newspapers, I saw his name among the other jury members, but there was no point in seeking him out, and I soon forgot his name altogether. That’s what the pages of life are like, as my son once said in the days when he wrote poetry, adding that the pages turn one after the other, and are dead as soon as they’re read. The whole poem rhymed like that, but that’s the only rhyme I can remember.
“A long time after that, he told me, in prose this time, that I must not attempt to avoid the jury service for which I had again been summoned. I insisted that I wouldn’t go and once more quoted those words from the Gospel. He declared that it was my duty as a citizen, a service that no self-respecting person should deny to his country. And so I went and sat through three trials.
“One involved an employee of the Banco do Trabalho Honrado—the Bank of Honest Toil—the teller, in fact, who was accused of embezzlement. I had heard about the case, which had been reported in the press, although not in much detail, and, besides, I didn’t usually bother reading the crime reports. The accused entered the court and sat down on the prisoner’s bench. He was a thin, red-haired man. I looked at him closely and shuddered, for I seemed to see before me my fellow jury member from that trial years before. I didn’t immediately recognize him because he was so much thinner, but his hair and beard were the same color, and he had the same air about him, and, when he spoke, the same voice and name: Lopes.
“ ‘Will you please state your name?’ said the judge.
“ ‘Antônio do Carmo Ribeiro Lopes.’
“I had forgotten the first three names, but the fourth was the same, and everything else confirmed my suspicions; he really was the man I had met all those years ago. I have to say that this realization prevented me from following the interrogation very closely, and I missed many details. By the time I was able to concentrate, the trial was almost over. Lopes stoutly denied everything he was asked or else answered in a way that only complicated the whole proce
ss. He looked around him with not a hint of fear or anxiety; there was possibly even the suggestion of a smile on his lips.
“The charges were read out. Forgery and the embezzlement of one hundred and ten contos de réis. I won’t say how the crime or the criminal were discovered, because it’s getting late, and the orchestra is tuning up. What I will say with certainty is that I was very impressed by the reports that were read out, the questions, the documents, the teller’s attempt to escape, and a series of other aggravating factors, and, finally, the witness statements. As I listened to statements being read out or to evidence from the witnesses, I kept my eyes trained on Lopes. He was listening, too, but with his head held high, looking calmly around, at the court reporter and the judge, at the ceiling and the people who were going to judge him, among them myself. When he looked at me, he didn’t recognize me; he just stared at me for a while and smiled, as he did at the other jury members.
“Both prosecution and defense leapt upon these gestures, just as they had years before on that other man’s very different gestures. The prosecutor saw in them a clear display of cynical disdain, the defense lawyer declared that only innocence and the certainty that he would be absolved could explain such composure.
“While the two lawyers were speaking, I was thinking how odd it was that the same man who had condemned that other fellow should find himself sitting on the very same bench, and, needless to say, I murmured to myself the words from the Gospel: ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’ I confess that, more than once, a shiver ran down my spine. Not because I myself might one day embezzle money, but what if, in a fit of rage, I were to kill someone or find myself falsely accused of embezzlement? The man who had passed judgment before was now also being judged.
“Alongside those words from the Gospel, I suddenly recalled the words spoken by Lopes: ‘Into the mire!’ You can’t imagine how this shook me. I recollected the whole story, just as I’ve told it to you now, including the little speech he gave in the jury room, and those words of his: ‘Into the mire!’ I saw that he wasn’t a worthless thief, a thief of nothing at all, but a thief of great value. The words defined the action. ‘Into the mire!’ He meant that you should only carry out such an act for a really large sum of money. There’s no point muddying your name for the sake of a few pennies. If you want to muddy your name, then into the mire with you, up to your neck!
“Ideas and words went rolling around in my head, and I missed the judge’s summing-up entirely. The trial was over, he read out the interrogatories, and then we withdrew to the jury room. Just between you and me, I can say that I voted ‘guilty,’ because his embezzlement of those one hundred and ten contos seemed beyond dispute. Among the other documents, there was a letter from Lopes that made this clear. Yet it seems that not everyone saw things as I did. Two other jury members voted with me. However, the nine others believed Lopes to be innocent; a verdict of not guilty was read out, and the accused walked from court a free man. That majority vote made me doubt myself. Perhaps I had been wrong. Even today I feel the odd twinge of conscience. Fortunately, if Lopes really didn’t commit the crime, at least he didn’t go to prison because of my vote, and that consoles me for any possible error of judgment. My conscience still troubles me, though. Judge not, that ye be not judged. Plunge into the mire up to your knees or up to your neck, that’s your choice, but don’t judge anyone else. Oh, the music’s stopped, it’s time we went back to our seats.”
THE HOLIDAY
A SLAVE CAME into the room to say that someone wished to speak to
the schoolmaster.
“Who is it?”
“He says you don’t know him, sir,” answered the slave.
“Ask him to come in.”
I don’t know exactly how many of us children there were at the school then, but there was a general turning of heads toward the door through which the stranger would enter. Shortly afterward, a rough, weather-beaten figure arrived; his long hair had clearly never seen a comb, his clothes were all creased and crumpled, and I can’t now even recall what color they were or what fabric they were made from, but they were probably some sort of dun-colored cotton. We all waited to hear what the man had come to say, especially me, because he happened to be my uncle, and lived in Guaratiba. His name was Uncle Zeca.
He went over to the teacher and spoke to him very quietly. The teacher asked him to sit down, then glanced across at me, and I think he must have asked my uncle something, because Uncle Zeca then launched into a long explanation. The teacher questioned him further, and my uncle answered, and, finally, the teacher turned to me and said:
“Senhor José Martins, you may leave.”
My sense of pleasure overcame any feelings of fear and confusion. I was only ten years old and I loved having fun and loathed school. Being summoned home by my uncle, my father’s brother, who had arrived the previous day from Guaratiba, must indicate some celebration or outing, or something of the sort. I ran to fetch my hat, stuffed my exercise book into my pocket, and went down the steps of the school—a two-story building in Rua do Senado. In the corridor, I kissed Uncle Zeca’s hand, and once we were out in the street, I trotted along beside him, looking up at his face. He still said nothing, and I didn’t dare ask any questions. Shortly afterward, we reached my sister Felícia’s school; my uncle told me to wait, went up the school steps, and eventually they both emerged, and the three of us set off home. I was feeling even more excited now. I was sure some celebration awaited us, because both of us were there, walking ahead of my uncle, exchanging questions and conjectures. Perhaps it was Uncle Zeca’s birthday. I turned to look at him; he had his eyes fixed on the ground, probably so that he wouldn’t stumble.
On we walked. Felícia was a year older than me. She was wearing flat shoes tied on with ribbons that crisscrossed her instep and ended in a bow around her ankles. I was wearing a pair of very worn cheap leather boots. Her bloomers just reached the ribbons on her ankles, whereas my baggy cotton pants reached down to my feet. Once or twice we stopped, she to admire the dolls displayed outside the notions stores, while I paused anywhere that had a parrot bobbing up and down on a perch to which it would be attached by a metal chain. It was usually a parrot I’d met before, but, to a ten-year-old, parrots are always of unfailing interest. Uncle Zeca would drag us away from all these commercial or natural spectacles. “Come on,” he would say in a gruff voice. And we would continue walking, until some other curiosity made us stop. The main thing was the party awaiting us at home.
“I don’t think it can be Uncle Zeca’s birthday,” Felícia said.
“Why not?”
“He seems rather sad.”
“No, he’s not sad, he’s just a bit grumpy.”
“All right, grumpy, but if it was his birthday, you’d expect him to look really cheerful.”
“Perhaps it’s my godfather’s birthday, then . . .”
“Or my godmother’s . . .”
“But in that case, why did Mama send us to school today?”
“Perhaps she didn’t know.”
“There’s bound to be a big supper. . . .”
“And puddings . . .”
“And maybe dancing . . .”
We finally agreed that it could be a party even if it wasn’t anyone’s birthday. A big lottery win, for example. It occurred to me, too, that it could be election time. My godfather was a candidate for alderman, and although I didn’t really know what “candidate” or “alderman” meant, I’d heard so much talk about his imminent victory that I assumed it was already done and dusted. I didn’t know that elections were always held on a Sunday, and today was Friday. I imagined music bands and cheering and people clapping, with us kids leaping about and laughing and eating coconut candy. There might be some sort of performance later on. I felt positively dizzy with excitement. I had been to the theater just once and had fallen asleep on the way home, but the following day I was so happy that I longed to go again, even though I hadn’t understood a word of what I’d
heard, because I’d seen a lot of things: fancy chairs, thrones, long spears, scenes that changed before your eyes, going from parlor to forest and from forest to street. And all the characters were princes. At least that’s what we called the ones wearing silk breeches, buckled shoes or boots, swords, velvet capes, and plumed caps. There was dancing too. The dancers, male and female, spoke with their feet and hands, changing position all the time and with a permanent smile on their lips. Then the audience started shouting and clapping . . .
That’s the second time I’ve mentioned “clapping” now, but that’s because I knew about clapping. When I told Felícia about the possibility of some kind of performance, she didn’t seem so keen, nor did she reject it entirely, either. She wouldn’t mind going to the theater. Or perhaps the performance would be at home, maybe a puppet show. We were still engaged in these conjectures, when Uncle Zeca told us to stop while he talked to someone.
We waited. The idea of a party, of whatever kind, still excited us; well, more me than her. Myriad possibilities sprang up in my imagination, all of them incomplete, because they came into my head so quickly and in such confusion that I couldn’t actually grasp them; some may even have appeared more than once. Felícia pointed out two houseboys wearing scarlet skullcaps, who were walking past carrying canes, and that reminded us of the feast nights of Saint Anthony and Saint John, which were both long gone. Then I told her about the bonfires we lit in the playground, about the Roman candles and Catherine wheels and firecrackers we set off, and how we boys danced together. Perhaps it would be something like that . . . Then I suddenly remembered that you were supposed to throw your schoolbook on the fire; she could throw hers, too, the one containing all the different stitches she was learning.
The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis Page 103
