A Chapter of Hats: Selected Stories

by Machado De Assis

  ‘Tell us.’

  ‘I was looking at the glass, with the insistence of a desperate man, looking at my own floating, unfinished features, a cloud of loose, shapeless lines, when I had an idea … No, you’ll never guess.’

  ‘Go on, tell us, tell us.’

  ‘I had the idea of putting the sub-lieutenant’s uniform on. I did just that, and dressed from top to toe; and, since I was in front of the mirror, I lifted my eyes, and … I’ll say no more; the glass then reproduced my whole figure; there wasn’t a feature missing, no outline was out of place; it was I myself, the sub-lieutenant, who had finally found his external soul. This soul, which had gone missing with the owner of the farm and dispersed and fled with the slaves, there it was, reconstituted in the mirror. Imagine a man who, little by little, emerges from a state of lethargy, opens his eyes without seeing, then begins to see, distinguishes people from objects, but still can’t recognise each one individually; then finally he’s aware that this is Tom, that’s Dick, that’s Harry; here’s a chair, there’s a sofa. Everything returns to what it was before he went to sleep. That’s how it was with me. I looked at the mirror, went from one side to another, took a step back, gesticulated, smiled, and the glass expressed everything. I was an automaton no longer; I was an animated being. From that day on, I was another person. Each day, at a given hour, I dressed as a sub-lieutenant, and sat down in front of the mirror reading, looking, meditating; at the end of two or three hours, I undressed again. With this system I was able to get through six more days of solitude, without noticing them …’

  When the others came back to their senses, the storyteller had gone down the stairs.

  An Alexandrian Tale

  Chapter A: At Sea

  ‘What, my dear Stroibus! No, impossible. Nobody will ever, ever believe that a rat’s blood, if given to a man to drink, will turn him into a burglar.’

  ‘In the first place, Pythias, you omit one condition: the rat must die beneath the scalpel for the blood to preserve its vital essence. This condition is essential. In the second place, since you choose the example of the rat, you may as well know that I have already carried out an experiment, and have managed to produce a thief …’

  ‘A real thief?’

  ‘He took my cloak; thirty days later, but he gave me the greatest happiness in the world: the proof of my ideas. What did I lose? A little bit of coarse cloth; and what has the universe gained? Enduring truth. Yes, my dear Pythias, this is the eternal truth. The constitutive elements of the thief are in the blood of a rat, of the patient man in the ox, of daring in the eagle …’

  ‘And those of the wise man in the owl,’ Pythias interrupted with a smile.

  ‘No: the owl is only an emblem; but the spider, if we could transfer it inside a man, would give that man the rudiments of geometry and musical appreciation. With a flock of storks, swallows or cranes, I’ll make a home-loving man into a wanderer. The essence of conjugal fidelity is in the blood of the dove, of vanity in peacocks… In sum, the gods put the essence of all human capacities and feelings into the beasts of the earth, water and air. The animals are the letters of the alphabet; man is the syntax. This is my latest philosophy; this is what I am about to unveil at the court of the great Ptolemy.’

  Pythias shook his head and stared at the sea. The ship was bound for Alexandria with its precious cargo of two philosophers, who were carrying the fruits of their enlightened philosophy to that cradle of learning. They were friends, both widowers and in their fifties. They especially cultivated metaphysics, but they were also acquainted with physics, chemistry, medicine and music; one of them, Stroibus, had become an excellent anatomist, having read Herophilus’s treatises on the subject many times. Cyprus was their native land; but, so true is it that no one is a prophet in his own country, that Cyprus did not give the two philosophers the respect they merited. On the contrary, it despised them; some young men went so far as to laugh at them in the street. This, however, was not their motive for leaving their homeland. One day, Pythias, on his return from a journey, proposed to his friend that they should go to Alexandria, where the arts and sciences were held in great esteem. Stroibus agreed, and they embarked. Only now, once they were at sea, did the inventor of the new doctrine expound it to his friend, along with all his recent speculations and experiments.

  ‘That’s that then,’ said Pythias, lifting his head; ‘I neither confirm nor deny anything. I’ll study these teachings, and if I find they are true, I will willingly develop and help to spread them.’

  ‘Long live Helios, god of the sun,’ Stroibus exclaimed. ‘I can say you are my disciple.’

  Chapter B: An Experiment

  The Alexandrian youths didn’t treat the two sages with the same mockery as the Cypriots. The country was as grave as an ibis standing on only one leg, as thoughtful as the sphinx, as circumspect as the mummies and as hard as the pyramids; it had neither the time nor the inclination to laugh. The city and the court, which had for many years heard tell of our two friends, gave them a regal reception, showed they were familiar with their writings; they discussed their ideas, and sent them many presents – papyri, crocodiles, zebras, cloths dyed a rich purple. They, however, refused it all with simplicity, saying that philosophy, for the philosopher, was its own reward, and that superfluity corrupts. Such a noble reply filled the wise men, the city’s leaders, and even the lower classes with admiration. Moreover, said the wisest of all, what else could be expected of two such sublime men, who in their magnificent treatises …

  ‘We’ve got something better than those treatises,’ Stroibus interrupted. ‘I have a doctrine which, in a short time, will rule the universe; my plan is nothing less than the reordering of men and nations, through a redistribution of talents and virtues.’

  ‘Isn’t that the gods’ affair?’ someone objected.

  ‘I have penetrated the secret of the gods,’ Stroibus replied. ‘Man is the syntax of nature, and I have discovered the laws of divine grammar …’

  ‘Explain yourself.’

  ‘Later; allow me first to carry out my experiment. When my doctrine is complete, I will reveal it as the greatest gift men could ever receive from one of their kind.’

  Imagine the public expectation and the curiosity of other philosophers, doubtful though they were that this recent truth could pension off the ones they themselves held. Nevertheless, they all waited. The two guests were pointed out in the street, even by children. A son thought he might change his father’s avarice, a father his son’s prodigality, a lady a gentleman’s coldness, a gentleman a lady’s follies – for Egypt, from the times of the Pharoahs to that of the Ptolemies, had been the land of Potiphar, of Potiphar’s wife, of Joseph’s coat of many colours, and all the rest of it. Stroibus became the great hope of the city and the world.

  Pythias, having studied the doctrine, went to see Stroibus, and said to him: ‘Metaphysically, your doctrine is nonsense; but I am prepared to allow one experiment, as long as it is decisive. There is only one way, my dear Stroibus, that this can be done. You and I, because we have cultivated reason and because of our upright natures, are as opposed to the vice of theft as it is possible to be. Well then, if you manage to instil this vice in us, no more will be necessary; if you achieve nothing (and that’s what will happen, for the whole thing’s absurd), you will abandon this doctrine, and return to our former meditations.’

  Stroibus accepted the proposal.

  ‘My sacrifice is the harder,’ he said, ‘in that I am certain of the outcome; but what may truth not demand of us? Truth is immortal; man is a brief moment …’

  The Egyptian rats, had they known of this agreement, would have imitated the ancient Hebrews, and chosen to flee into the desert rather than accept the new philosophy. We can only believe that would have been a disastrous occurrence. Science, like war, has unanswerable necessities; and since the ignorance and weakness of rats, coupled with the mental and physical superiority of the two philosophers, constituted so many favourab
le circumstances in the experiment about to begin, there was no missing such an excellent opportunity to find out if the essence of each human passion and virtue really was distributed through the various species of animals, and if it were possible to transmit it.

  Stroibus put the rats in cages; then, one by one, he submitted them to the knife. First, he tied a strip of cloth to the patient’s snout – then the feet; finally, he tied the animal’s legs and neck to the operating table. This done, he made the first cut in the chest, slowly, and as slowly dug the knife in until he touched the heart, for he was of the opinion that instantaneous death corrupted the blood and removed its essence. A skilled anatomist, he operated with an assuredness worthy of his scientific aims. Another, less dextrous, would have interrupted the task many times, for the contortions of pain and the death throes made it difficult to wield the knife; but that was precisely Stroibus’s superiority: his firmness and accuracy were masterly.

  At his side, Pythias collected the blood and assisted in the task, either containing the convulsive movements of the patient, or watching the progress of the death throes in its eyes. The observations made by both men were noted down on papyrus leaves; and science benefited from this in two ways. Sometimes, because their view of matters differed, they were obliged to dissect a greater number of rats than was necessary; but they lost nothing by this, for the blood of the surplus ones was kept and swallowed later. A single example will demonstrate the conscientious manner in which they proceeded. Pythias had observed that the retina of the dying rat changed colour to a light blue, while Stroibus’s observation indicated cinnamon as the final hue at the point of death. They were on their last operation of the day; but the point was worth testing, and, tired as they were, they carried out nineteen experiments without a conclusive answer; Pythias insisted on the light blue, and Stroibus on cinnamon. The twentieth rat nearly brought agreement, but Stroibus, with great wisdom, pointed out that he was in a different position. He corrected it and they dissected another twenty-five. Of these, the first still left them in doubt; but the other twenty-four proved to them that the final colour was neither cinnamon nor blue, but a violet colour, somewhat on the pale side.

  Exaggerated descriptions of this experimentation had repercussions on the sentimental portion of the city’s population, and excited verbose commentary from some sophists; but the severe Stroibus (gently, so as not to worsen a typical tendency of the human soul) replied that truth was worth all the rats in the universe, and not only rats, but peacocks, goats, dogs, nightingales, etc.; in the rats’ case, science was not the only beneficiary – the city gained too, as the scourge of such a harmful animal was reduced; moreover, if the same considerations could not be applied to other animals, such as doves or dogs, for instance, which would be dissected in good time, the rights of truth were no less inalienable. Nature should not only serve the dinner table, he concluded in aphoristic vein, but the table of science too.

  And they went on extracting the blood and drinking it. They didn’t drink it pure, but diluted in a tisane of jasmine, acacia juice and balsam, which removed all its original taste. They took it in tiny daily doses; they had to wait a long time, therefore, for the desired effect. Pythias, impatient and incredulous, made fun of his friend.

  ‘Well then? Nothing?’

  ‘Wait,’ said the other, ‘wait. You don’t instil a vice the way you sew a pair of sandals.’

  Chapter C: Victory

  Finally, Stroibus conquered! The experiment proved the doctrine. And Pythias was the first one to give signs that the effects were real, when he attributed to himself three ideas he’d heard from Stroibus; the latter, for his part, stole four comparisons and a theory of the operation of the winds from him. What could be more scientific than these beginnings? Other people’s ideas, precisely because they can’t be bought at the street corner, have an air of having been shared; it’s very natural to begin with them before going on to borrowed books, chickens, forged money, provinces and so on. The very word plagiarism is an indication that people understand how easy it is to confuse this germ of thievery with thievery properly so called.

  It’s hard to admit; but the truth is that they threw their metaphysical baggage into the Nile, and in a short while had become full-blown pilferers. They would lay their plans on the previous day, and off they went after cloaks, bronzes, amphorae of wine, merchandise at the docks, and good solid drachmas. As they stole noiselessly, no one caught on; but even if they had suspected, how would they have made anyone else believe it? Already then, Ptolemy had collected many costly volumes and rarities in his library; and, because they had to be put in order, he designated five grammarians and five philosophers, among whom were our two friends. They both worked with singular zeal, being the first to arrive and the last to leave, and staying on many nights, by lamplight, deciphering, compiling and classifying. Ptolemy, elated, had the highest of destinies in mind for them.

  Some time later, serious gaps began to be noted: a copy of Homer, three rolls of Persian and two of Samaritan manuscripts, a superb collection of Alexander’s original letters, copies of Athenian laws, the second and third books of Plato’s Republic, etc., etc. The authorities set up a close watch; but the rat’s cunning, transferred to a superior organism, was naturally greater, and the two illustrious thieves made a mockery of the spies and guards. They went as far as to establish the philosophical principle that they wouldn’t leave empty-handed; they always carried something, a fable at the very least. Finally, since there was a ship leaving for Cyprus, they asked leave of Ptolemy, promising to return, sewed the books inside hippopotamus skins, put false labels on them and attempted to flee. But the envy of other philosophers was unceasing; the magistrates’ suspicions were aroused, and the robbery was discovered. Stroibus and Pythias were arrested as adventurers who had used the names of those two illustrious men as a disguise; Ptolemy delivered them to the courts with orders to hand them over immediately to the executioner. At this point, Herophilus, the father of anatomy, intervened.1

  Chapter D: Plus Ultra!

  ‘My Lord,’ he said to Ptolemy, ‘up to now I have limited myself to dissecting corpses. But the body gives me the structure, it does not give me life; it gives me the organs, not their functions. I need the functions and I need life.’

  ‘What are you saying to me?’ Ptolemy answered. ‘Do you want to disembowel Stroibus’s rats?’

  ‘No, sir; I don’t want to disembowel rats.’

  ‘Dogs? Geese? Hares?’

  ‘None of those; I ask for some living men.’

  ‘Living? That’s impossible …’

  ‘I shall demonstrate that not only is it possible, but legitimate and necessary. The prisons of Egypt are full of criminals, and criminals occupy an extremely low rung of the human ladder. They are no longer citizens, and indeed cannot call themselves men, for they have relinquished man’s two distinguishing characteristics, reason and virtue, by infringing law and morality. Besides, since they have to expiate their crimes by death, is it not just that they should give some service to truth and science? Truth is immortal; it is worth not only all the rats, but all the delinquents in the universe.’

  Ptolemy found this reasoning correct, and ordered that criminals should be handed over to Herophilus and his disciples. The great anatomist thanked him for such an exceptional favour, and began to dissect the prisoners. Great was the astonishment of the people; but apart from a few verbal appeals, there were no protests against the measure. Herophilus repeated what he had said to Ptolemy, adding that the subjection of the prisoners to anatomical experiment was even an indirect way of encouraging morality, since the terror of the knife would prevent many crimes from being committed.

  None of the criminals, when they left the prison, suspected the scientific destiny awaiting them. They came out one by one; sometimes two by two, or three by three. Many of them, stretched out and tied to the operating table, still suspected nothing; they thought it was a new kind of summary execution. Only wh
en the anatomists defined the object of the day’s study did the wretches become aware of what was happening. Those who remembered seeing the experiments on the rats suffered doubly, for their imaginations added the spectacle of the past to their present pain.

  To reconcile the interests of science with the impulse to compassion, the prisoners were not dissected in sight of each other, but successively. When they came in twos or threes, they were not put in a place where they could hear the patient’s cries, though often the cries were smothered by means of certain appliances; but if they were smothered, they were not eliminated, and indeed in certain cases, the objective of the experiment itself demanded that the emission of the voice should be full and free. Sometimes the operations were simultaneous; but then they were carried out far apart from one another.

  Nearly fifty prisoners had been dissected when it came to the turn of Stroibus and Pythias. When they were fetched, they supposed it was for their judicial execution, and commended themselves to the gods. On the way they stole some figs, and explained the occurrence, attributing it to the pangs of hunger; further on, however, they purloined a flute – for this latter action they no longer had a satisfactory explanation. However, the thief’s cunning is infinite, and Stroibus, to justify the action, tried to extract some notes from the instrument, filling with compassion the people who saw them pass, who were not ignorant of the fate that awaited them. The news of these latest two crimes was narrated by Herophilus, and shook all his disciples.