“This has got to stop!”
“We can’t let this go on!”
“Down with this tyranny!”
“And with the tyrant!”
Not yet cries in the street, these complaints were heard in people’s houses, and as the terror mounted, the hour of open rebellion approached. The idea of petitioning the government to arrest and deport Simão Bacamarte had crossed several people’s minds even before Porfírio the barber expressed it loudly in his barbershop, shaking his fist with indignation. Let it be noted that Porfírio—who, as barbers did in those days, served his clients by applying leeches and using his razor as a scalpel for minor surgeries—was getting rich since the sick people of Itaguaí had stopped consulting Simão Bacamarte for any reason. And yet, in a gesture of selfless civic virtue, he proclaimed that private gain took second place to the public interest, and he shouted: “The despot must be overthrown!” Let it be noted, furthermore, that he raised the cry of rebellion on the very day that Bacamarte arrested a certain Coelho, who had a lawsuit pending against the barber.
“So, is Coelho crazy?” he inquired.
And nobody answered him. Everybody considered Coelho perfectly sane. Coelho’s lawsuit against Porfírio, concerning a couple of vacant lots in town, derived from a confusion of obscurely worded property titles rather than from greed or rancor. A fine fellow, Coelho. The only people who didn’t like him were a couple of grumps (always in a hurry, according to them) who would duck into a shop or around a corner in order not to talk to Coelho when they saw him coming down the street. The truth is that Coelho did like to talk. Nothing pleased him more than meeting someone with the time and inclination to chew the fat, but any passerby would do for a start. Father Lopes, one of Coelho’s few enemies, liked to insult him slyly using quotations from Dante, which he thought a harmless amusement, given that neither Coelho nor anyone else in Itaguaí (except, of course, the alienist) could understand him. If asked, he claimed to be praying in Latin.
VI
The Revolution
The barber soon had thirty followers. They wrote a petition and took it to the town council, but the council refused to accept it, declaring that the Casa Verde was a public institution and that the progress of Science could not be governed by administrative decree, much less by the demands of an unruly mob.
“Our best advice to you,” concluded the president of the town council, “is to return to your labors.”
The agitators were furious. The barber called for rebellion and the destruction of the Casa Verde. No longer could Itaguaí be a guinea pig for experimentation. Too many people, whether prominent or humble, languished in the cubicles of the Casa Verde. And moreover, the scientific despotism of the alienist had been complicated by a profit motive, because his patients were not treated free of charge. Their families or, in some cases, the town council had to foot the bill.
“False!” interrupted the mayor.
“False?”
“Not two weeks ago the illustrious physician informed us that, in view of the enormous scientific value of his experiments, he could not accept further payment from the town council or the families of the lunatics.”
News of an action so pure, so noble, softened the rebels’ hearts. Surely he had committed errors, but the alienist’s motives were wholly scientific, after all. And an uproar did not help to clarify the errors, whatever they might be. So spoke the president of the town council, to the applause of its assembled members. After a moment’s reflection, the barber declared that he had a public mandate and would not rest until destroying the Casa Verde, “that Bastille of human reason,” in the phrase of a local poet that he repeated with great emphasis. At that, he exited the town hall with all his followers.
The town council had an emergency on its hands. It had to control the menace of riot, rack, and ruin. To make matters worse, one of the councilmen who had applauded the president’s initial statement, upon hearing the barber refer to the Casa Verde as “that Bastille of human reason,” found the phrase so eloquent that he changed his mind and called for measures against the Casa Verde. When the president expressed his vigorous indignation at the idea, the councilman responded in the following terms:
“I know nothing of Science, but if he has locked up so many people who are apparently sane, who’s to say that the alienist isn’t insane himself?”
Sebastião Freitas, the dissident councilman, had a gift for words, and he continued to speak for some time with firmness, prudence, and good sense. His colleagues were dumfounded, and the president of the town council begged him, at least, to set an example of respect for law and order by not repeating such things in the street, where his ideas would “give body and soul to the whirlwind.” The effect of this phrase was to counterbalance, somewhat, the effect of the other. Sebastião Freitas promised to do nothing more, for the moment, but reserved the right to demand legal measures against the Casa Verde. “That Bastille of human reason,” he repeated under his breath, shaking his head in admiration.
Meanwhile, the riot outside was gaining force. Not thirty, but three hundred followers now marched behind the barber, whose nickname, Pork Chop, should be mentioned at this point, because the movement eventually became famous in the chronicles of Itaguaí as the Pork Chop Revolution. The participants would have been more numerous, but many townspeople—whether as a matter of fear or upbringing—hesitated to join a riot led by somebody called “Pork Chop.” Nonetheless, the general spirit of the day was unanimous, or nearly unanimous, and the three hundred who marched in the direction of the Casa Verde might even be compared, allowing for the differences between Itaguaí and Paris, to the crowd that stormed the Bastille.
Dona Evarista got news of the mob before it arrived. A slave boy brought it to her while she was trying on a silk dress (one of the thirty-seven she had brought from Rio de Janeiro), and she refused to believe it.
“It must be some prank,” she said modifying the position of a pin. “Benedita, see if the hem is straight.”
“It is, ma’am,” responded the black chambermaid squatting beside her on the floor. “It’s fine. Turn just a bit. Like that. Yes, ma’am, it’s fine.”
“It’s no prank, no ma’am,” continued the boy, quite frightened. “They’re shouting, ‘Down with the tyrant Bacamarte!’”
“Hush, silly! … Benedita, see over here on the left side? Doesn’t the hem look a little crooked? See? That looks awful. We’ll have to unsew that part and—”
“Death to Bacamarte! Down with the tyrant!” howled three hundred voices in the street.
All the blood drained from Dona Evarista’s face. For a moment, petrified with terror, she stood stock-still. The slave girl at her feet ran instinctively toward the backdoor of the house. As for the boy who had brought the news, a quick and almost imperceptible movement indicated his sense of vindication at having been proved correct.
“Death to the alienist!” shouted the approaching voices.
Dona Evarista, although easily overwhelmed by a tumult of happiness, knew how to retain her composure in the face of danger. Pulling herself together, she ran to her husband’s study. When she entered it precipitately, the illustrious physician was scrutinizing an Arabic text by the medieval authority Averroes, and his eyes, clouded with cogitation, rose from the book to the ceiling and fell from ceiling to book, visualizing profound mental truths but blind to external realities. Dona Evarista called to her husband two times, without attracting his attention. The third time he heard her and asked if she were ill.
“Don’t you hear those shouts?” asked his worthy wife, in tears.
The alienist listened to the shouts, ever closer and more menacing, and he grasped the entire situation. Rising from the armchair in which he had been seated, he closed his book and went with firm and unhurried steps to deposit it on the bookshelf. Because returning the volume to its place pushed the contiguous volumes slightly out of alignment, Simão Bacamarte took a moment to correct that minimal but meaningful impe
rfection. Then he told his wife to stay inside and do nothing.
“No, no,” implored the worthy woman, “I want to die at your side …”
Simão Bacamarte insisted that she stay inside, no one was going to die, and even should that be the case, her duty was to remain alive. And the sorrowful lady bowed her head, obedient and tearful.
“Down with the Casa Verde!” bellowed the mob.
The alienist walked toward the balcony just as the Pork Chop Revolution arrived beneath it, its three hundred heads radiant with civic virtue but somber with fury. “Death to the tyrant!” came the shout from all sides as the figure of the alienist emerged onto the balcony. Simão Bacamarte raised his hand, asking to speak. The rebellious mob drowned his voice with howls of indignation. Then the barber waved his hat to impose silence, managed to quiet his friends, and told the alienist that he could speak, as long as he did not try the People’s patience. They had had enough.
“I will say little, or even nothing all, as the case may be. First, though, I need to know what you are asking for.”
“We aren’t asking for anything,” replied the barber vehemently, “we’re demanding that the Casa Verde be demolished, or at least, emptied of all its victims.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you understand, tyrant! We are here to liberate the victims of your hatred, your greed, your obstinacy …”
The alienist smiled a smile invisible to the eyes of the multitude, a slight contraction of two or three muscles, nothing more. He smiled and responded:
“Science is a serious thing, gentlemen, and it deserves to be treated seriously. In matters of alienism, I answer to no one, save to scientific authority and to God. If you want to discuss my management of the Casa Verde, I am willing to hear you. But if you ask me to betray my principles, you will gain nothing thereby. I could invite you to send a delegation with me to observe my treatment of the demented—I could, but I will not, because I will never explain my therapeutic regimen to an unschooled mob.”
The alienist said these things, and the multitude was amazed. Clearly, it had not anticipated such energy, and still less, such serenity. And its amazement grew as the alienist bowed gravely, turned his back, and left the balcony. The barber then recovered his self-possession and, waving his hat, called his followers to demolish the Casa Verde, but only scattered, uncertain voices responded. It was at that precise moment that the barber felt the ambition to govern awaken inside him. He believed that by demolishing the Casa Verde and overthrowing the alienist he would gain decisive influence over the town council and make himself master of Itaguaí. For a number of years he had been trying to get his name included on the list of men eligible to serve on the town council, but he had been rejected because his trade and social status were deemed inappropriate for such exalted office. It was now or never. Things had gone too far for him to turn back. Failure would mean exile, prison, or even the gallows. Unfortunately, the alienist’s words had diminished the fervor of his followers. The barber felt a surge of indignation, an urge to shout, “Cowards, wretches!” But he restrained himself and took a different tack:
“Let us struggle, dear friends, to the bitter end. The salvation of Itaguaí lies in your worthy and heroic hands. Let us pull down the walls that imprison your fathers and brothers, your mothers and sisters, the walls that threaten your own freedom. If not, you will surely die on rations of bread and water, groaning beneath the lash, in the dungeons of the tyrant.”
The multitude roused itself, murmured, shouted with defiance, and swirled around the barber. The Pork Chop Revolution was reborn after faltering briefly, and it was ready to raze the Casa Verde to the ground.
“Forward!” shouted Porfírio, waving his hat.
“Forward!” repeated his followers.
But something stopped them in their tracks: a corps of heavily armed, mounted dragoons marching up the street in their direction.
VII
Something Unexpected
When the dragoons came face to face with the Pork Chop Revolution, there ensued a moment of stupefaction. The rebels could hardly believe that the army had been sent against them, but the barber understood everything and simply waited. The dragoons halted, and their captain told the multitude to disperse. Although some were inclined to do so, others rallied around the barber, who responded audaciously:
“We shall not disperse. Take our dead bodies if you must. They are yours, but the bodies only. You shall not take our honor, our rights, or our self-respect, for upon them depends the salvation of Itaguaí.”
A rash reply, certainly, but a very natural one, revealing the disorientation that often occurs in moments of great crisis—revealing as well, perhaps, an excessive confidence that the dragoons would refrain from using their weapons, a confidence that their captain dissipated instantly by ordering a charge. The next moments defied description. The multitude howled with fury. Some managed to escape by climbing into the windows of nearby houses or running down the street. But the majority stood firm, bellowing their indignation, bolstered by the exhortations of the barber. The defeat of the Pork Chop Revolution appeared imminent when, suddenly—for reasons not clarified in the chronicles—a third of the dragoons switched sides and joined the rebels. The unexpected reinforcements simultaneously encouraged the rebels and discouraged their foes. The remaining dragoons did not have the heart to attack their former comrades and, one by one, joined them until, after a few minutes, the picture had altered completely. The captain, accompanied now by only a handful of men, faced a compact mass of intimidating rebels. He had no choice but to accept defeat and surrender his sword to the barber.
The triumphant rebellion lost no time. After attending to the wounded, it made for the town hall. Dragoons and rebels fraternized with each other and with the cheering crowd, shouting vivas for the king and his viceroy, for Itaguaí and their illustrious leader, who walked at the head of the multitude waving the surrendered sword as nimbly as one of his straight razors. Victory wreathed the barber’s brow with a mysterious aura, and the dignity of office had begun to stiffen his thighs.
The councilmen, peering from the windows of the town hall, assumed that the dragoons were bringing the rebels back as captives. Immediately, they voted to petition the viceroy for a bonus to reward the troops whose bravery had saved Itaguaí from “plunging headlong into the abyss of anarchy.” This phrase was proposed by Sebastião Freitas, the dissident councilman whose earlier defense of the rebels had so scandalized his colleagues. Very quickly, however, shouts of “Long live Porfírio” and “Death to the alienist” informed the council of the sad truth. Its president did not lose his nerve: “Whatever may be our fate, let us never forget that we are, above all, servants of His Majesty and Itaguaí.” Sebastião Freitas insinuated that their most effective service might be to exit by the backdoor and consult with the judge, but the other councilmen vigorously rejected that suggestion.
The barber then entered the town hall accompanied by his chief lieutenants and arrested the council. The erstwhile councilmen did not resist and allowed themselves to be taken to jail. At that point, the barber’s associates proposed that he take charge of the municipal government in the name of His Majesty. Porfírio accepted that responsibility, although he was well aware (he added) of the thorny difficulties it entailed. He would need the support of his friends (he added further), and they assured him of it. The barber went to the window and communicated these resolutions to the crowd, who did not hesitate to ratify them and acclaim the barber “Protector of Itaguaí in the name of His Majesty and the People.” The protector then issued various important documents officially announcing the formation of the new government and providing the viceroy with a detailed report of recent events (including repeated protestations of loyalty and obedience to His Majesty). He also penned the following brief but forceful proclamation:
“People of Itaguaí!
“The former, privileged town council, grown negligent and corrupt,
was conspiring against the interests of His Majesty and the People. Public opinion condemned it, and now a handful of citizens, aided by the courageous Royal Dragoons, have dissolved it and, with the unanimous consensus of the townspeople, have confided in me, your faithful servant, the responsibility of governing until such a time as His Majesty disposes otherwise. People of Itaguaí! All that I ask is your confidence and your help in restoring public tranquility and probity in the management of our public finances, so needlessly squandered by the council that you have seen fit to overthrow today. Rest assured of my disposition to self-sacrifice and of the eventual favor and gratitude of His Majesty.
The Protector of Itaguaí in the
Name of His Majesty and the People
“PORFIRIO CAETANO DAS NEVES”
Everyone noticed the proclamation’s total silence regarding the Casa Verde, a bad sign according to some. The danger seemed all the greater because, during the momentous events of that afternoon, the alienist had taken seven or eight more people to the Casa Verde, two of them women. Another was a relative of the protector, and while this was not, in point of fact, an intentional provocation on the part of the alienist, everyone interpreted it that way. The town held its breath hoping, within another twenty-four hours, to see the alienist himself locked up and his so-called asylum destroyed forever.
The day ended cheerfully. As the man with the noisemaker went from one street corner to the next reading the proclamation, people poured out of their houses and gathered in excited crowds, cheering the illustrious Porfírio and swearing, if need be, to die in his defense. Confidence in the new government was such that one heard few shouts of protest against the Casa Verde. The barber issued a decree making the day a holiday, and he asked the vicar to say a celebratory mass in honor of the occasion, but Father Lopes flatly refused.
The Alienist and Other Stories of Nineteenth-Century Brazil Page 13
