The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  “You could be a minister,” I told him.

  Benedito was not expecting this remark, and his face lit up, although he quickly disguised this delight.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said. “Although, if I were to become a minister, I would want to work solely with industry. People are tired of party politics; we need to develop the vital energies of our country, its great resources. Do you remember what we talked about on our way to Vassouras, about how Brazil is only at the crawling stage, and will only begin to walk once there’s a proper railroad network . . . ?”

  “Yes, you’re right,” I said, slightly alarmed. “And why do you think I came to Europe? To make arrangements for a railroad to be built. That’s what I was doing in London.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  I showed him the documents, and he gazed at them as if dazzled. I showed him the various notes, statistics, bulletins, reports, and contracts for industrial materials that I had accumulated, and he declared that he wanted to collect such things too. And to this end, he visited ministries, banks, and trade associations, requesting all manner of notes and pamphlets, which he stuffed into his luggage. He did this with great ardor, but the ardor was short-lived, on loan, as it were. He was far keener on collecting political axioms and parliamentary terminology. He had a whole arsenal of them in his head and often trotted them out in conversation, as if speaking from long experience; he believed them to be highly prestigious and of inestimable value. Many came from the English tradition, and he preferred these to any others, as if they brought a little touch of the House of Commons with them. He enjoyed them so much that I’m not sure he would even have accepted real freedom if he could not deck it out with all that verbal apparatus; no, I don’t think he would. I think that, given the choice, he would have chosen those brief, convenient sayings, some of them satisfyingly pithy, some high-sounding, and all of them axiomatic, requiring no thought, filling the void, and leaving people at peace with God and with mankind.

  We journeyed to Brazil together, but I disembarked in Pernambuco, before going back to London, and only returned to Rio a year later. By then Benedito was a deputy. I went to see him and found him preparing his maiden speech. He showed me his notes, excerpts from reports, and books on political economy, some with the pages marked with strips of paper labeled thus: “Exchange Rates,” “Land Taxes,” “Cereal Crops in England,” “John Stuart Mill’s Opinion,” “Thiers’ Erroneous Views on Railroads,” etc. He was sincere, painstaking, and passionate. He spoke to me about these things as if he had just discovered them, laying it all out before me, ab ovo; he was determined to show the practical men of the Chamber that he, too, was practical. Then he asked me about my business dealings, and I brought him up to date.

  “In a couple of years, I hope to be opening the first stretch of track.”

  “What about the English investors?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are they pleased? Hopeful?”

  “Of course they are.”

  I told him a few technical details, to which he listened rather abstractedly, either because what I told him was too complicated, or for some other reason. When I finished speaking, he said how glad he was to see me so involved in the industrial movement, which is precisely what the country needed, and a propos of this, he did me the favor of reading me the introduction to the speech he would be giving in a few days’ time.

  “It’s still only in draft form,” he said, “but the main ideas are there.” He began thus:

  “In an age of growing anxiety, when partisan shouting drowns out the voices of legitimate interests, allow me to give expression to a plea from the nation. Gentlemen, it is time to concentrate exclusively—and I mean exclusively—on the material improvements this country requires. Oh, I know what you will say, you will say that a nation is not merely a stomach for digesting food, but a head to think with and a heart to feel with. I say that all these things would be worth little or nothing if they had not legs to walk on; and I will repeat here what I said to a friend of a mine a few years ago, on a journey into the interior of the country: Brazil is a child who is still only at the crawling stage, and will only begin to walk once it is crisscrossed by a network of railroads . . .”

  I heard nothing more, but sat there, deep in thought. Or, rather, not deep in thought, but utterly astonished, staring wild-eyed into the abyss that psychology was digging beneath my feet. This man is completely sincere, I was thinking, he believes what he has written. And so I went down into that abyss to see if I could find some explanation for the various processes through which his memory of our trip to Vassouras had passed. I found (and forgive me if I’m being presumptuous), I found further proof of the law of evolution, as defined by Spencer. Well, either Spencer or Benedito, one of the two.

  PYLADES AND ORESTES

  QUINTANILHA BEGAT GONÇALVES. At least that was the impression they gave when you saw them together, even though they did not resemble each other. On the contrary, Quintanilha had a round face and Gonçalves a long face, the former was short and dark, the latter tall and fair; all in all, they could not have been less alike. I should add that they were almost the same age. The idea of paternity sprang from the way in which the former treated the latter, for a father could not have been more affectionate, caring, and thoughtful.

  They had studied law together, shared lodgings, and graduated in the same year. Quintanilha did not pursue a career in law or the judiciary, but instead became involved in politics. However, after being elected provincial deputy in 187*, he served just one term, then left when he inherited all his uncle’s wealth, which gave him an income of thirty contos de réis. He returned to Rio to see his friend Gonçalves, who was working as a lawyer there.

  Even though he was wealthy, young, and enjoyed the friendship of that one close friend, it could not be said that Quintanilha was entirely happy, as you will see. I will set aside the unhappiness that came along with his inheritance, an unhappiness that was due entirely to his other relatives’ furious reaction, so furious that he came close to giving up the inheritance entirely. He only did not do so because his friend Gonçalves, who advised him on many matters, had convinced him that this would be utter madness.

  “It’s not your fault your uncle valued you more than he did his other relatives. You didn’t write the will, nor did you fawn on him, as they did. If he left you all his money that’s because he thought you were better than them. Keep the money, since that was your late uncle’s intention, and don’t be so foolish.”

  In the end, Quintanilha did as he advised. Some of the other relatives subsequently tried to make peace with him, but his friend warned him of their ulterior motives, and Quintanilha did not open his door to them. One of his relatives, seeing him so bound to his old university friend, told all and sundry:

  “He’s abandoned his blood relatives in favor of a complete outsider. Well, we all know where that will lead.”

  Quintanilha was furious when he heard this, and ran to tell Gonçalves. Gonçalves smiled, told him not to be so silly, and generally soothed his anxieties, saying there was no point getting worked up over mere tittle-tattle.

  “I ask just one thing,” he went on, “that we separate, so that no one can say—”

  “Say what? It would really come to something if I had to choose my friends according to the whim of some shameless ne’er-do-wells!”

  “Don’t talk like that, Quintanilha. Don’t speak so coarsely about your relatives.”

  “Wretched creatures! Am I supposed to live only with people chosen by half a dozen frauds whose one desire is to get their hands on my money? No, Gonçalves. I’ll do anything else you want, but not that. I am the only one who can choose my friends, I and my heart. Unless, of course, you’re bored with me . . .”

  “Me, bored? Really!”

  “Well, then.”

  “But if they—”

  “Ignore them.”

  The two friends could n
ot have formed a more united pair. Quintanilha’s first thought when he woke up was of Gonçalves, and after breakfast he would immediately set off to see him. Later, they would dine together, visit a mutual friend or two, go for a stroll, and end up at the theater. If Gonçalves had work to do in the evening, Quintanilha would gladly help him, looking up legal texts, marking them, copying them, carrying books. Gonçalves was always forgetting something: an errand, a letter, his shoes, his cigars, his papers. Quintanilha was his memory. Sometimes, on Rua do Ouvidor, while watching the girls pass by, Gonçalves would suddenly recall some document or other that he had left in the office. Quintanilha would rush off to find it and, having found it, would race back, smiling and exhausted, as excited as if he had retrieved a winning lottery ticket:

  “Are these the papers you needed?”

  “Let me see, yes, those are the ones. I’ll take them, shall I?”

  “No, it’s all right, I’ll carry them.”

  At first Gonçalves would sigh:

  “Honestly, I’m such a bother to you!”

  But Quintanilha would laugh so fondly that Gonçalves, not wishing to hurt his friend’s feelings, would say no more and accept his help without a murmur. Over time, helping his friend became Quintanilha’s full-time occupation. Gonçalves would say: “Now, today you must remind me to do this and this.” And Quintanilha would make a mental note, or write a list if there were too many. Some tasks had to be performed at a particular time, and it was a delight to see Quintanilha sighing anxiously as he waited for the appointed hour, so that he would have the pleasure of reminding his friend what he needed to do. He would bring him his letters and papers, rush off to get some urgently needed response, meet clients, even wait for them at the station and make trips into the interior. On his own initiative, he would search out good cigars, good restaurants, and good plays for his friend to enjoy. Gonçalves could not even mention a book, however new or expensive, without finding a copy waiting for him at home. He would scold Quintanilha, saying:

  “You’re such a spendthrift.”

  “Spending money on literature and science is hardly money ill-spent!” retorted Quintanilha.

  At the end of the year, Quintanilha urged his friend to take a vacation. Gonçalves finally accepted, which pleased his friend enormously. They went up to Petrópolis. On the way back, they got to talking about painting, and Quintanilha remarked that they had no portrait of the two of them together. He immediately commissioned one. When he showed it to Gonçalves, the latter had no compunction in telling him that it was quite dreadful. Quintanilha was speechless.

  “It’s utter trash,” insisted Gonçalves.

  “But the painter told me—”

  “Look, Quintanilha, you know nothing about painting, and the painter took advantage of your ignorance to cheat you. I mean, do you call that a face? And is my arm really all twisted like that?”

  “The thief!”

  “No, he’s not to blame. He was just doing his job. You’re the one who has no feeling for and no experience of art, and you were well and truly duped. I know you meant well, but . . .”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And I suppose you’ve already paid him?”

  “I have.”

  Gonçalves shook his head, called him an ignoramus, but ended up laughing. Quintanilha stared angrily at the canvas, then took out a penknife and slashed the painting from top to bottom. As if that vengeful gesture were not enough, he returned the picture to the artist with a note in which he passed on to him some of the rude names he himself had been called and added that of “jackass.” Life is full of such trials. Shortly afterward, Quintanilha had his “revenge” when a promissory note issued by Gonçalves fell due and Gonçalves was unable to pay it. Indeed, they almost quarreled, for Gonçalves decided it would be best to reissue the note, whereas Quin­tanilha, who had guaranteed the note, felt that it was hardly worth reissuing for such a small sum of money (one thousand five hundred mil-réis); he suggested lending him the money, with Gonçalves paying him back when he could. Gonçalves refused this offer and, instead, renewed the note. When payment fell due again, the most he would agree to was accepting a loan from Quintanilha at the same rate of interest.

  “Don’t you see how shameful that is for me, Gonçalves, receiving interest from you?”

  “You either agree or the deal’s off.”

  “But, my dear friend . . .”

  He had no alternative but to agree. They were so very close that one lady dubbed them “the newlyweds,” and a more literary gentleman called them “Pylades and Orestes.” The two friends laughed at these epithets, of course, but when Quintanilha laughed, his eyes grew moist with tender tears. The other difference was the note of enthusiasm in Quintanilha’s feelings for his friend, something that was completely lacking in Gonçalves; and enthusiasm cannot be invented. The latter, of course, was more capable of inspiring enthusiasm in the former than the other way around. In truth, Quintanilha was extremely sensitive to praise, it took only a grateful word or look to inflame his heart. A gentle pat on the shoulder or the belly, intended to show approval or to emphasize their closeness, was enough to make him melt with pleasure. He would talk about such gestures and the circumstances that provoked them for two or three days afterward.

  He could often be angry or stubborn or even rude to people, but he laughed a lot, too, and sometimes that laughter was all-compassing, flowing forth from mouth, eyes, head, arms, legs, so that he was all laughter. He may have harbored no great passions, but he was certainly not without emotions.

  When Gonçalves’s loan fell due six months later, Quintanilha was determined not to accept payment and decided to dine in some other part of town so as not to see his friend, for fear that he might ask him to renew the loan. Gonçalves put paid to this plan by turning up at his house early in the morning to bring him the money. Quintanilha’s initial response was to reject the money, telling him to keep it, saying that he might need it; the debtor, however, insisted on paying and, indeed, paid.

  Quintanilha observed Gonçalves and saw how hard he worked, how zealously he defended his clients, and he was filled with admiration. Gonçalves was not a great lawyer, but, within his limitations, he was a distinguished one.

  “Why don’t you marry?” Quintanilha asked him one day. “A lawyer ought to marry.”

  Gonçalves laughed. He had an aunt, his only relative, whom he loved dearly, and who died when the two friends were in their thirties. Days later, he said to his friend:

  “Now I only have you.”

  Quintanilha felt his eyes welling up, and did not know what to say. By the time he had thought of a response—that he would stay with him till death did them part—it was too late. Instead, he redoubled his affections, and one day woke up with the idea that he should make his will. Without saying a word to his friend, he named him as his executor and sole heir.

  “Keep this document for me, Gonçalves,” he said, handing him the will. “I feel perfectly well, but death could come at any time, and I don’t want to entrust just anyone with my final wishes.”

  It was around this time that the following incident occurred.

  Quintanilha had a second cousin, Camila, who was twenty-two and a modest, well-brought-up, pretty young woman. She wasn’t rich; her father, João Bastos, worked as a bookkeeper for a coffee exporter. Quintanilha and Bastos had fallen out over his uncle’s inheritance, but Quintanilha had subsequently attended the funeral of João Bastos’s wife, and this act of piety had brought them together again. João Bastos easily forgot all the crude names he had called his cousin and called him other, far sweeter names, and invited him to come and dine with him. Quintanilha went and went again. He listened to his cousin praising his late wife, and, on one occasion when Camila had left the room, João Bastos heaped still more praise on his daughter’s rare qualities, which, he claimed, were her mother’s moral legacy to her.

  “I would never say such a thing to her, of course, and please don’t tel
l her I did. She’s very modest, you see, and if we were to start praising her, it might go to her head. For example, I’ll never say she’s as pretty as her mother was when she was her age because she might become vain. The truth is, though, she’s even prettier, don’t you think? She even plays the piano well, which her mother never did.”

  When Camila returned to the dining room, Quintanilha felt like telling her everything, but restrained himself and merely winked at her father. He then asked her if she would play the piano for them, but she replied sadly:

  “Ah, no, not yet. Mama only died a month ago. I’d prefer to allow a little more time to pass. Besides, I play very badly.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, very badly.”

  Quintanilha again winked at her father and suggested that he could only know if she played well or badly if she sat down at the piano. As for the time that had elapsed since her mother’s death, it was true that it was only a month since her passing, but it was also true that music was a natural and lofty distraction. And she could always play a sad tune. João Bastos approved of this way of looking at things and reminded Camila of a particularly elegiac piece she knew. Camila shook her head.

  “No, no, I would still have to play the piano, and the neighbors could easily lie and say that they heard me playing a polka.”

  Quintanilha thought this rather amusing and laughed. Then he bowed to her wishes and waited for a further three months to pass. Meanwhile, he saw her several times, and his last three visits were more prolonged and closer together. When he did finally hear her play, he greatly enjoyed it. Her father confessed that, at first, he hadn’t really liked that German music, but, with time and habit, he had come to appreciate it. He called his daughter “my little German,” a nickname that was adopted by Quintanilha, who simply changed it to a plural: “our little German.” Possessive pronouns add intimacy, an intimacy that soon existed among the three of them—or four, if we count Gonçalves, who was introduced to father and daughter by Quintanilha—but let’s stick with three for now.