CXVIII
The Third Force
The third force that called me into the bustle was the pleasure of making a show and, above all, an incapacity to live by myself. The multitude attracted me, applause was my love. If the idea of the poultice had come to me at that time, who knows. I might not have died so soon and would have been famous. But the poultice didn’t come. What did come was a desire to be active in something, with something, and for something.
CXIX
Parenthesis
I want to leave in parenthesis here half a dozen maxims from the many I wrote down around that time. They’re yawns of annoyance. They can serve as epigraphs to speeches that have no subject:
Bear your neighbor’s bellyache with patience.
We kill time; time buries us.
A philosophical coachman used to say that the pleasure of a coach would be less if we all traveled in coaches.
Believe in yourself, but don’t always doubt others.
It’s beyond understanding why a Botocudo Indian pierces his lip to adorn it with a piece of wood. This is the reflection of a jeweler.
Don’t be irritated if you’re poorly paid for a service. It’s better to fall down from out of the clouds than from a third-story window.
CXX
Compelle Intrare
No, sir, right now, like it or not, you’ve got to get married, Sabina told me. What a pretty future! An old bachelor with no children. No children! The idea of having children gave me a start. The mysterious fluid was running through me again. Yes, it was fitting for me to be a father. The life of a celibate may have certain advantages of its own, but they would be tenuous and purchased at the price of loneliness. No children! No, impossible! I was ready to accept everything, even the relationship with Damasceno. No children! Since I’d already placed great trust in Quincas Borba by then, I went to see him and laid out my inner movement toward paternity to him. The philosopher listened to me with great excitement. He declared to me that Humanitism was at work in my breast. He encouraged me to get married. He pondered the fact that there were some more guests knocking at the door, etc. Compelle intrare, as Jesus said. And he wouldn’t leave me without proving that the allegory in the Gospels was nothing but a foretoken of Humanitism, mistakenly interpreted by priests.
CXXI
Downhill
At the end of three months everything was going along marvelously. The fluid, Sabina, the girl’s eyes, the father’s desires were among the many impulses driving me toward marriage. The memory of Virgília would appear at the door from time to time and with it a black demon who would hold a mirror up to my face in which I would see Virgília, far away, drowning in tears. But a different demon would come, pink, with another mirror in which the figure of Nhã-loló was reflected, tender, luminous, angelic.
I won’t speak of the years. I didn’t feel them. I’ll even add that I put them aside one certain Sunday when I went to mass at the chapel on Livramento Hill. Since Damasceno lived in Cajueiros, I would accompany him to mass many times. The hill was still bare of houses except for the old mansion on top where the chapel was. So, one Sunday as I was descending with Nhã-loló on my arm, some kind of phenomenon, I don’t know what, took place, taking off two years here, four there, then five farther on, so that when I got to the bottom I was only twenty years old, just as lively as I had been at that age.
Now, if you want to know under what circumstances the phenomenon took place, all you have to do is read this chapter to the end. We were coming from mass, she, her father, and I. Halfway down the hill we came upon a group of men. Damasceno, who was walking beside us, noticed what it was and went ahead, all excited. We followed along. And this is what we saw: men of all ages, sizes, and colors, some in shirtsleeves, others wearing jackets, others in tattered frock coats, in different positions, some squatting, others with their hands on their knees, these sitting on stones, those leaning against the wall, and all watching the center, with their souls leaning out of the windows of their eyes.
“What is it?” Nhã-loló asked me.
I signaled her to be quiet, carefully opened a path, and they all made room for me with none of them really seeing me. The center held their eyes. It was a cockfight. I saw the two contenders, two roosters with sharp spurs, fiery eyes, and filed beaks. Both were shaking their bloody combs, The breasts of both were without feathers and ruddy colored, weariness was coming over them. But they kept on fighting, eyes staring at eyes, beak down, beak up, a peck from this one, a peck from that, quivering and enraged. Everything else was lost for Damasceno. The spectacle had eliminated the whole universe for him. I told him in vain that it was time to go down. He didn’t answer, he didn’t hear, he was concentrating on the duel. Cockfights were one of his passions.
It was on that occasion that Nhã-loló tugged me softly on the arm, saying we should be on our way. I accepted her advice and went on with her. I’ve already said that the hill was uninhabited at the time. I also said that we were coming from mass, and since I didn’t say it was raining, it was clear that the weather was good, a delightful sun. And strong. So strong that I immediately opened the parasol, held it by the center of the handle, and tilted in a way that was an aid to a page out of Quincas Borba’s philosophy: Humanitas kissed Hurnanitas … That was how the years fell away from me on the way downhill.
We stopped at the base for a few minutes waiting for Damascene. He arrived after a while, surrounded by bettors and commenting with them about the fight. One of them, the holder of the bets, was distributing a bundle of old ten tostão notes, which the winners took with redoubled joy. As for the roosters, they came along under the arms of their respective owners. One of them had his comb so badly pecked away and bloody that I recognized him immediately as the loser, but I was mistaken—the loser was the other one, who had no comb at all. They both had their beaks open and had trouble breathing, exhausted. The bettors, on the other hand, were merry in spite of the strong commotion of the fight. They recounted the lives of the contenders, recalled the deeds of both. I went along in vexation. Nhã-loló was especially vexed.
CXXII
A Very Delicate Intention
What had upset Nhã-loló was her father. The ease with which he’d joined the bettors brought out old habits and social affinities and Nhã-loló had become afraid that a father-in-law like that would seem unworthy to me. The difference she was making in herself was notable. She would study herself and study me. Elegant and polished life attracted her, principally because she thought it the surest way to blend our personalities. Nhã-loló would observe, imitate, and guess. At the same time she undertook an effort to conceal her family’s inferiority. On that day, however, her father’s display was so great that it made her quite sad. I then sought to get her mind off the matter, telling her a string of jokes and jests, all in good taste. A vain effort that didn’t make her any happier. Her depression was so deep, she was so obviously downcast, that I came to see in Nhã-loló the positive intention of separating her cause from her father’s cause in my mind. I thought that a most elevated feeling. It was one more affinity we had in common.
“There’s no other way,” I said to myself. “I’m going to pluck that flower out of that bog.”
CXXIII
The Real Cotrim
In spite of my forty-some-odd years, since I loved harmony in the family, I understood that I shouldn’t bring up the matter of marriage without first speaking to Cotrim. He listened to me and answered seriously that he had no opinions when it came to his relatives. They might imagine some special interest if he happened to praise the rare qualities of Nhã-loló. That’s why he kept quiet. Furthermore, he was sure that his niece had a real passion for me, but if she consulted him his advice would be negative. It wasn’t brought about by any hate, he appreciated my good qualities—they couldn’t be more praiseworthy, it was true, and as for Nhã-loló, he could never deny that she was an excellent bride, but from there to advise marriage there was a wide gap.
> “I wash my hands of it completely,” he concluded.
“But the other day you thought I should get married as soon as possible …”
“That was something else. I think it’s indispensable that you get married, especially with your political ambitions. You must know that celibacy is a drawback in politics. As to the bride, though, I can’t approve, I don’t want to, I shouldn’t, it’s against my honor. I think Sabina went too far, giving you certain hints, according to what she’s said. But, in any case, she’s not a blood relative of Nhã-loló like me. Look …, but no …, I won’t say …”
“Say it.”
“No, I won’t say anything.”
Perhaps Cotrim’s scruples will seem excessive to one who didn’t know that he possessed an extremely honorable character. I myself was unjust with him during the years following ray father’s will. I recognize now that he was a model. They accused him of avarice and I think they were right, but avarice is only the exaggeration of a virtue, and virtues should serve as evaluations. Oversupply is better than deficit. Since he was very cold in his manners, he had enemies who even accused him of being a barbarian. The only fact alleged in that particular was his frequent sending of slaves to the dungeon, from where they would emerge dripping blood. But, alongside the fact that he only sent recalcitrants and runaways, it so happens that, having been long involved in the smuggling of slaves, he’d become accustomed to a certain way of dealing that was a bit harsher than the business required, and one can’t honestly attribute to the original nature of a man what is simply the effect of his social relations. The proof that Cotrim had pious feelings could be found in his love for his children and the grief he suffered when Sara died a few months after that. Irrefutable proof, I think, and not the only one. He was the treasurer of a confraternity and brother in several brotherhoods and even a redeemed brother in one of them, which doesn’t jibe too well with his reputation for avarice. The truth is that the beneficence didn’t fall on barren ground: the brotherhood (of which he was a judge) ordered a portrait of him in oils to be painted. He wasn’t perfect, needless to say. He had, for example, the bad habit of letting the press know about his various charities—a reprehensible and not praiseworthy custom I must agree. But he defended himself by saying that good works were contagious when public. An argument that’s not without some weight. I do believe (and here I give him the highest praise) that he only practiced those occasional charities with an aim to arousing the philanthropy of others, and if such was his intent, I must confess that publicity is a sine qua non. In short, he may have been owing in a few courtesies, but he didn’t owe anyone a penny.
CXXIV
As an Interlude
What is there between life and death? A short bridge. Nevertheless, if I hadn’t put this chapter together the reader would have suffered a strong shock, quite harmful to the effect of the book. Jumping from a portrait to an epitaph can be a real and common act. The reader, however, is only taking refuge in the book to escape life. I’m not saying the thought is mine. I’m saying that there’s a grain of truth in it and the form, at least, is picturesque. And, I repeat, it’s not mine.
CXXV
Epitaph
HERE LIES
DONA EULÁLIA DAMASCENA DE BRITO
DEAD
AT THE AGE OF NINETEEN
PRAY FOR HER!
CXXVI
Disconsolate
The epitaph says everything. It’s worth more than my telling you about Nhã-loló’s illness, her death, the despair of the family, the burial. Just know that she died. I will add that it was on the occasion of the first inroad of yellow fever. I won’t say anything more except that I accompanied her to her final resting place and said goodbye sadly, but without tears. I concluded that perhaps I didn’t really love her.
See now how excesses can lead to unawareness. I was pained a little by the blindness of the epidemic that was killing right and left and also carried off a young lady who was to be my wife. I couldn’t get to understand the necessity of the epidemic, much less of that death. I think that I felt it to be even more absurd than all the other deaths. Quincas Borba, however, explained to me that epidemics were useful for the species, even though disastrous for a certain portion of individuals. He made me take notice that as horrible as the spectacle might be, there was a very weighty advantage: the survival of the greater number. He got to ask me in the midst of the general mourning if I didn’t feel some secret joy in having escaped the clutches of the plague. But that question was so absurd that it went without an answer.
Since I haven’t recounted the death, neither shall I speak about the seventh-day mass. Damasceno’s sadness was profound. The poor man looked like a ruin. I was with him two weeks later. He was still inconsolable and he said that the great pain God had inflicted upon him was increased all the more by that inflicted on him by men. He didn’t tell me anything else. Three weeks later he got back onto the subject and then he confessed to me that in the midst of the irreparable disaster he would have liked to have had the consolation of the presence of his friends. Only twelve people, and three-quarters of them Cotrim’s friends, had accompanied the corpse of his beloved daughter to her grave. And he’d sent out eighty notices. I argued that with the losses being so widespread he could easily forgive that apparent lack of concern. Damasceno shook his head in an incredulous and sad way.
“Ah!” he moaned, “they deserted me.”
Cotrim, who was present, said:
“The ones who came were the ones who had a true interest in you and in us. The eighty would have come as a formality, they would have talked about the government’s inertia, druggists’ panaceas, the price of houses, or something like that …”
Damasceno listened in silence, shook his head again, and sighed:
“But they would have come!”
CXXVII
Formality
It is a great thing to have received a particle of wisdom from heaven, the gift of finding the relationship of things, the faculty of comparing them, and the talent for drawing a conclusion! I had the psychic distinction. I’m thankful for it, even now at the bottom of my grave.
In fact, the ordinary man, if he’d heard Damasceno’s last words, wouldn’t remember them when some time later he was to look at a print showing six Turkish ladies. But I remembered. They were six ladies from Constantinople—modern—in street clothes, faces covered not by a thick cloth that really covered them, but by a thin veil that pretended to reveal only the eyes and in reality exposed the whole face. And I was amused by that cunningness of Muslim coquetry, which in that way hides the face and follows usage, but doesn’t cover it, displaying its beauty. There’s apparently nothing to connect the Turkish ladies and Damascene, but if you’re a profound and penetrating spirit (and I doubt very much that you will deny me that), you’ll understand that in both cases there arises the tip of a rigid yet gentle companion of social man …
Yes, pleasant Formality, you are the staff of life, the balm of hearts, the mediator among men, the link between heaven and earth. You wipe away the tears of a father, you capture the indulgence of a Prophet. If grief falls asleep and conscience is accommodated, to whom, except you, is that huge benefit owed? The esteem that extends to the hat on one’s head doesn’t say anything to the soul, but the indifference that courts it leaves it with a delightful impression. The reason is that, contrary to an old absurd formula, it isn’t the letter that kills; the letter gives life, the spirit is the object of controversy, of doubt, of interpretation, and consequently of life and death. You live, pleasant Formality, for the peace of Damasceno and the glory of Mohammed.
CXXVIII
In the Chamber
And take good notice that I saw the Turkish print two years after Damasceno’s words and I saw it in the Chamber of Deputies, in the midst of a great hubbub while a deputy was discussing an opinion of the budget commission, for I was also a deputy. For those who’ve read this book there’s no need to discuss my satisfaction
further, and for the others it’s equally useless. I was a deputy and I saw the Turkish print as I leaned back in my seat between a colleague who was telling a story and another who was sketching the profile of the speaker in pencil on the back of an envelope. The speaker was Lobo Neves. The wave of life had brought us to the same beach like two bottles from shipwrecked sailors, he holding in his resentment, I holding in my remorse perhaps. And I use that suspensive, doubtful, or conditional form meaning to say that there was nothing to be held there unless it was my ambition to be a cabinet minister.
CXXIX
No Remorse
I had no remorse. If I had the proper chemical apparatus, I would include a page of chemistry in this book because I would break down remorse into its most simple elements with an aim to knowing in a positive and conclusive way the reason for Achilles’ dragging the corpse of his adversary around the walls of Troy and Lady Macbeth’s walking about the room with her spot of blood. But I don’t have any chemical apparatus, just as I didn’t have any remorse. What I had was the desire to be a minister of state. Therefore, if I am to finish this chapter, I must say that I didn’t want to be either Achilles or Lady Macbeth, and that if I had to be either one, better Achilles, better dragging the corpse in triumph than carrying the spot. Priam’s pleas are finally heard and a nice military and literary reputation is gained. I wasn’t listening to Priam’s pleas but to Lobo Neves’ speech, and I had no remorse.
The Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas Page 20
