The Complete Stories

by Clarice Lispector

  Now, no more of this. Never again. Oh, it had just been a bout of weakness; genius was the worst temptation. But afterward she’d returned so completely that she’d even had to start being careful again not to wear people down with her old penchant for detail. She clearly remembered her classmates at Sacré Coeur saying to her: “You’ve told it a thousand times!” she recalled with an embarrassed smile. She’d returned so completely: now she got tired every day, every day her face would sag at dusk, and then night would take on its former purpose, it wasn’t just the perfect starlit night. And everything lined up harmoniously. And, as with everyone else, each day wore her out; like everyone else, human and perishable. No longer that perfection, no longer that youth. No longer that thing that one day had spread brightly, like a cancer, to her soul.

  She opened her sleep-laden eyes, feeling the nice solid glass in her hands, but closed them again with a comfortable smile of fatigue, bathing like some nouveau riche in all her particles, in that familiar and slightly nauseating water. Yes, slightly nauseating; what did it matter, since she too was a bit nauseating, she was well aware. But her husband didn’t think so, and so what did it matter, since thank God she didn’t live in an environment that required her to be more clever and interesting, and she’d even freed herself from high school, which had so awkwardly demanded that she stay alert. What did it matter. In fatigue—she’d ironed Armando’s shirts, not to mention she’d gone to the farmers’ market that morning and lingered there so long, with that pleasure she took in making the most of things—in fatigue there was a nice place for her, the discreet and dulled place from which, so embarrassingly for herself and everyone else, she had once emerged. But, as she kept saying, thank God, she’d returned.

  And if she sought with greater faith and love, she would find within her fatigue that even better place called sleep. She sighed with pleasure, in a moment of spiteful mischief tempted to go along with that warm exhalation that was her already somnolent breathing, tempted to doze off for a second. “Just a second, just one little second!” she begged herself, flattered to be so drowsy, begging pleadingly, as if begging a man, which Armando had always liked.

  But she didn’t really have time to sleep now, not even for a quick nap—she thought vainly and with false modesty, she was such a busy person! She’d always envied people who said “I didn’t have time” and now she was once again such a busy person: they were going to Carlota’s for dinner and everything had to be orderly and ready, it was her first dinner party since coming back and she didn’t want to be late, she had to be ready when . . . right, I’ve already said it a thousand times, she thought sheepishly. Once was enough to say: “I don’t want to be late”—since that reason sufficed: if she had never been able to bear without the utmost mortification being a nuisance to anyone, then now, more than ever, she shouldn’t . . . No, there wasn’t the slightest doubt: she didn’t have time to sleep. What she ought to do, familiarly slipping into that intimate wealth of routine—and it hurt her that Carlota scoffed at her penchant for routine—what she ought to do was 1) wait till the maid was ready; 2) give her money to get meat in the morning, rump roast; how could she explain that the difficulty of finding quality meat really was a good topic of conversation, but if Carlota found out she’d scoff at her; 3) start meticulously showering and getting dressed, fully surrendering to the pleasure of making the most of her time. That brown dress complemented her eyes and its little cream lace collar gave her a childlike quality, like an old-fashioned boy. And, back to the nocturnal peace of Tijuca—no longer that blinding light from those coiffed and perky nurses leaving for their day off after tossing her like a helpless chicken into the abyss of insulin—back to the nocturnal peace of Tijuca, back to her real life: she’d go arm-in-arm with Armando, walking slowly to the bus stop, with those short, thick thighs packed into that girdle making her a “woman of distinction”; but whenever, upset, she told Armando it was because of an ovarian insufficiency, he, who took pride in his wife’s thighs, replied rather cheekily: “What would I get out of marrying a ballerina?” that was how he replied. You’d never guess, but Armando could sometimes be really naughty, you’d never guess. Once in a while they said the same thing. She explained that it was because of an ovarian insufficiency. So then he’d say: “What would I get out of marrying a ballerina?” He could be really shameless sometimes, you’d never guess. Carlota would be astonished to learn that they too had a private life and things they never told, but she wouldn’t tell, what a shame not to be able to tell, Carlota definitely thought she was just uptight and mundane and a little annoying, and if she had to be careful not to bother other people with details, with Armando she’d sometimes relax and get pretty annoying, which didn’t matter because he’d pretend to be listening without really listening to everything she was telling him, which didn’t hurt her feelings, she understood perfectly well that her chatter tired people out a bit, but it was nice to be able to explain how she hadn’t found any meat even if Armando shook his head and wasn’t listening, she and the maid chatted a lot, actually she talked more than the maid, and she was also careful not to pester the maid who sometimes held back her impatience and could get a little rude, it was her own fault because she didn’t always command respect.

  But, as she was saying, her arm in his, she so short and he tall and slim, but he was healthy thank God, and she a brunette. She was a brunette as she obscurely believed a wife ought to be. To have black or blonde hair was an excess to which she, in her desire to do everything right, had never aspired. Therefore, as for green eyes, it seemed to her that having green eyes would be like keeping certain things from her husband. Not that Carlota exactly gave her reason to gossip, but she, Laura—who if given the chance would defend her fervently, but never got the chance—she, Laura, grudgingly had to agree that her friend had a peculiar and funny way of dealing with her husband, oh not that she acted “as if they were equals,” as people were doing nowadays, but you know what I mean. And Carlota was even a bit original, she’d even mentioned this once to Armando and Armando had agreed but hadn’t thought it mattered much. But, as she was saying, dressed in brown with her little collar . . .—this daydream was filling her with the same pleasure she got from tidying drawers, sometimes she’d even mess them up just to be able to tidy them again.

  She opened her eyes, and as if the room had dozed off instead of her, it seemed refreshed and relaxed with its brushed armchairs and the curtains that had shrunk in the last wash, like pants that were too short while the person stood comically peering down at his legs. Oh how nice it was to see everything tidy and dusted again, everything cleaned by her own skillful hands, and so silent, and with a vase full of flowers, like a waiting room. She’d always found waiting rooms lovely, so courteous, so impersonal. How rich normal life was, she who had returned from extravagance at last. Even a vase of flowers. She looked at it.

  “Oh they’re so lovely,” her heart exclaimed suddenly a bit childish. They were small wild roses she’d bought at the farmers’ market that morning, partly because the man had been so insistent, partly out of daring. She’d arranged them in the vase that very morning, while drinking her sacred ten o’clock glass of milk.

  Yet bathed in the light of this room the roses stood in all their complete and tranquil beauty.

  I’ve never seen such pretty roses, she thought with curiosity. And as if she hadn’t just had that exact thought, vaguely aware that she’d just had that exact thought and quickly glossing over the awkwardness of realizing she was being a little tedious, she thought in a further stage of surprise: “Honestly, I’ve never seen such pretty roses.” She looked at them attentively. But her attention couldn’t remain mere attention for long, it soon was transformed into gentle pleasure, and she couldn’t manage to keep analyzing the roses, she had to interrupt herself with the same exclamation of submissive curiosity: they’re so lovely.

  They were some perfect roses, several on the same stem. At some
point they’d climbed over one another with nimble eagerness but then, once the game was over, they had tranquilly stopped moving. They were some roses so perfect in their smallness, not entirely in bloom, and their pinkish hue was nearly white. They even look fake! she said in surprise. They might look white if they were completely open but, with their central petals curled into buds, their color was concentrated and, as inside an earlobe, you could feel the redness coursing through them. They’re so lovely, thought Laura surprised.

  But without knowing why, she was a little embarrassed, a little disturbed. Oh, not too much, it was just that extreme beauty made her uncomfortable.

  She heard the maid’s footsteps on the kitchen tile and could tell from the hollow sound that she was wearing heels; so she must be ready to leave. Then Laura had a somewhat original idea: why not ask Maria to stop by Carlota’s and leave her the roses as a present?

  And also because that extreme beauty made her uncomfortable. Uncomfortable? It was a risk. Oh, no, why would it be a risk? They just made her uncomfortable, they were a warning, oh no, why would they be a warning? Maria would give Carlota the roses.

  “Dona Laura sent them,” Maria would say.

  She smiled thoughtfully: Carlota would think it odd that Laura, who could bring the roses herself, since she wanted to give them as a present, sent them with the maid before dinner. Not to mention she’d find it amusing to get roses, she’d think it “refined” . . .

  “There’s no need for things like that between us, Laura!” her friend would say with that slightly rude bluntness, and Laura would exclaim in a muffled cry of rapture:

  “Oh no! no! It’s not because you invited us to dinner! it’s just that the roses were so lovely I decided on a whim to give them to you!”

  Yes, if when the time came she could find a way and got the nerve, that’s exactly what she’d say. How was it again that she’d say it? she mustn’t forget: she’d say—“Oh no!” etc. And Carlota would be surprised by the delicacy of Laura’s feelings, no one would ever imagine that Laura too had her little ideas. In this imaginary and agreeable scene that made her smile beatifically, she called herself “Laura,” as if referring to a third person. A third person full of that gentle and crackling and grateful and tranquil faith, Laura, the one with the little real-lace collar, discreetly dressed, Armando’s wife, finally an Armando who no longer needed to force himself to pay attention to all of her chattering about the maid and meat, who no longer needed to think about his wife, like a man who is happy, like a man who isn’t married to a ballerina.

  “I couldn’t help but send you the roses,” Laura would say, that third person so, so very . . . And giving the roses was nearly as lovely as the roses themselves.

  And indeed she’d be rid of them.

  And what indeed would happen then? Ah, yes: as she was saying, Carlota surprised by that Laura who was neither intelligent nor good but who also had her secret feelings. And Armando? Armando would look at her with a healthy dose of astonishment—since you can’t forget there’s no possible way for him to know that the maid brought the roses this afternoon!—Armando would look fondly on the whims of his little woman, and that night they’d sleep together.

  And she’d have forgotten the roses and their beauty.

  No, she thought suddenly vaguely forewarned. She must watch out for other people’s alarmed stares. She must never again give cause for alarm, especially with everything still so recent. And most important of all was sparing everyone from suffering the least bit of doubt. And never again cause other people to fuss over her—never again that awful thing where everyone stared at her mutely, and her right there in front of everyone. No whims.

  But at the same time she saw the empty glass of milk in her hand and also thought: “he” said not to strain myself to make it work, not to worry about acting a certain way just to prove that I’m already . . .

  “Maria,” she then said upon hearing the maid’s footsteps again. And when Maria approached, she said impetuously and defiantly: “Could you stop by Dona Carlota’s and leave these roses for her? Say it like this: ‘Dona Carlota, Dona Laura sent these.’ Say it like this: ‘Dona Carlota . . .’ ”

  “Got it, got it,” said the maid patiently.

  Laura went to find an old piece of tissue paper. Then she carefully took the roses out of the vase, so lovely and tranquil, with their delicate and deadly thorns. She wanted to give the arrangement an artistic touch. And at the same time be rid of them. And she could get dressed and move on with her day. When she gathered the moist little roses into a bouquet, she extended the hand holding them, looked at them from a distance, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes for an impartial and severe judgment.

  And when she looked at them, she saw the roses.

  And then, stubborn, gentle, she coaxed inwardly: don’t give away the roses, they’re lovely.

  A second later, still very gentle, the thought intensified slightly, almost tantalizing: don’t give them away, they’re yours. Laura gasped a little: because things were never hers.

  But these roses were. Rosy, small, perfect: hers. She looked at them in disbelief: they were beautiful and hers. If she managed to think further, she’d think: hers like nothing else had ever been.

  And she could even keep them since she’d already shed that initial discomfort that made her vaguely avoid looking at the roses too much.

  Why give them away, then? lovely and you’re giving them away? After all when you happen upon a good thing, you just go and give it away? After all if they were hers, she coaxed persuasively without finding any argument besides the one that, with repetition, seemed increasingly convincing and simple. They wouldn’t last long—so why give them away while they were still alive? The pleasure of having them didn’t pose much of a risk—she deluded herself—after all, whether or not she wanted them, she’d have to give them up soon enough, and then she’d never think of them again since they’d be dead—they wouldn’t last long, so why give them away? The fact that they didn’t last long seemed to remove her guilt about keeping them, according to the obscure logic of a woman who sins. After all you could see they wouldn’t last long (it would be quick, free from danger). And besides—she argued in a final and triumphant rejection of guilt—by no means had she been the one who’d wanted to buy them, the vendor kept insisting and she always got so flustered when people put her on the spot, she hadn’t been the one who’d wanted to buy them, she was in no way to blame whatsoever. She looked at them entranced, thoughtful, profound.

  And, honestly, I’ve never seen anything more perfect in all my life.

  Fine, but now she’d already spoken to Maria and there was no way to turn back. So was it too late?, she got scared, seeing the little roses waiting impassively in her own hand. If she wanted, it wouldn’t be too late . . . She could tell Maria: “Listen Maria, I’ve decided to take the roses over myself when I go to dinner!” And, of course, she wouldn’t take them . . . And Maria would never have to know. And, before changing clothes, she’d sit on the sofa for a second, just a second, to look at them. And to look at those roses’ tranquil detachment. Yes, since, having done the deed, you might as well take advantage of it, wouldn’t it be silly to take the blame without reaping the rewards. That’s exactly what she’d do.

  But with the unwrapped roses in her hand she waited. She wasn’t putting them back in the vase, she wasn’t calling Maria. She knew why. Because she ought to give them away. Oh she knew why.

  And also because a pretty thing was meant for giving or receiving, not just having. And, above all, never just for “being.” Above all one should never be the pretty thing. A pretty thing lacked the gesture of giving. One should never keep a pretty thing, just like that, as if stowed inside the perfect silence of the heart. (Although, if she didn’t give away the roses, no one in the world would ever know that she’d planned to give them away, who would ever find out? it was horribly easy
and doable to keep them, since who would ever find out? and they’d be hers, and that would be the end of it and no one would mention it again . . . )

  So? and so? she wondered vaguely worried.

  So, no. What she ought to do was wrap them up and send them off, without any enjoyment now; wrap them up and, disappointed, send them off; and in astonishment be rid of them. Also because a person must have some consistency, her thinking ought to have some continuity: if she’d spontaneously decided to hand them over to Carlota, she should stick to her decision and give them away. Because no one changed their mind from one moment to the next.

  But anyone can have regrets! she suddenly rebelled. Since it was only the moment I picked the roses up that I realized how beautiful I thought they were, for the very first time in fact, when I picked them up, that’s when I realized they were beautiful. Or just before? (And besides they were hers). And besides the doctor himself had patted her on the back and said: “Don’t strain to pretend you’re well, ma’am, because you are well,” and then that firm pat on the back. That’s why, then, she didn’t have to be consistent, she didn’t have to prove anything to anyone and she’d keep the roses. (And besides—besides they were hers).