Near to the Wild Heart

by Clarice Lispector

  — Would you like to be married — really married — to him? — Joana questioned her.

  Lídia had given her a sharp look, anxious to discover if the question was meant to be sarcastic.

  — Yes, I would.

  — Why? —Joana asked in surprise. Can't you see that you wouldn't gain anything from such a marriage? Everything marriage has to offer you already have — Lídia blushed, but I wasn't being malicious, an ugly but wholesome woman.

  — I'll bet you've spent your whole life wanting to get married.

  Lídia felt an urge to rebel: she had been touched to the quick, in the coldest possible manner.

  — Yes. Every woman... — she agreed.

  — You're getting at me. For I never thought of getting married. The funny thing is that I still feel certain I didn't marry... This is more or less how I saw it: marriage is a goal, after I get married nothing more can happen to me. Just imagine: to have someone always at your side, never to know loneliness. — My God! — never to be by yourself, never, never. And to be a married woman, in other words, someone with her destiny traced out. From then onwards you simply have to wait for death. I thought: you couldn't even preserve the freedom to be unhappy because you drag another person along with you. There is someone constantly watching you, observing you, accompanying every move you make. And even boredom with life has a certain beauty — I thought — when you suffer it alone in quiet despair. But with two, eating the same tasteless bread day after day, seeing your own frustration mirrored in your partner's habits, the burden of the bed you share, of your life in common, plotting and threatening you with a common death. I always said: never.

  — Why did you get married? — Lídia asked.

  — I don't know. All I know is that this 'I don't know' is not just my being ignorant about things. It is the very heart of the matter. I'm evading the question, any minute now she'll look at me in that way I know so well. I certainly got married because I wanted to marry. Because Otávio wanted to marry me. That's it, that's it, I've got it: instead of asking to live with me without getting married, he suggested something else. Besides it came to the same thing. And I was foolish, Otávio's good-looking, don't you agree?

  I couldn't recall anything else. — Pause — How do you love him: with your body?

  — Yes, with my body -Lídia had mumbled.

  — It's love.

  — And you? Lídia ventured.

  — Not quite.

  — But he told me, on the contrary...

  Lídia had broken off. She studied her carefully. How ingenuous Joana seemed. She spoke of love in such a clear and straightforward manner for it was certain that nothing had been revealed to her so far through love. She had not succumbed to its shadows, she had not yet felt its deep and secret transformations. Otherwise she would be, like her, almost ashamed of so much happiness, she would remain vigilant at its door, protecting from the cold light what mustn't be blighted if it is to go on living. Meanwhile there was Joana's vivacity... what she had understood through Otávio... that life existed inside her... But Lídia suspected that Joana's love didn't even protect Joana herself. Without experience, intact, unblemished, she could have been mistaken for a virgin. Lídia looked at her and tried to explain to herself what was hovering and lucid on that face. Love certainly did not bind her, even to love. While Lídia herself, almost instantly after the first kiss, had been transformed into woman.

  — Yes, yes, but nothing changes, Joana continued tranquilly. I also love him more dispassionately, both as a human being and as a man. — Is she about to look at me in that timid way, scared and deferential: oh, why do you discuss such difficult things, why do you raise such enormous issues at such a simple moment? Spare me, spare me. But this time I'm to blame because frankly, I don't know what I was trying to say. Nevertheless, this is how I shall outdo her.

  Lídia hesitated.

  — Isn't that more than love?

  — Perhaps, Joana said, surprised. What matters is that it's no longer love. — And suddenly, I'm overcome with weariness, the great 'what's the use' swamps me, and I know that I'm about to say something. — Keep Otávio. Have his child, be happy, and leave me in peace.

  — Do you know what you're saying? — the other had shouted.

  — Of course I know.

  — Don't you like him?...

  — I like him. But I've never known what to do with the persons or things I like. Ever since childhood, there comes a point when I find them a burden. Perhaps if I truly loved with my body... Perhaps I should become more tied... -I'm confiding in her, dear God. I'm now going to put it like this: — Otávio is escaping from me because I don't bring peace to anyone, I always end up giving everyone the same treatment. I force them into admitting: I was blind, it wasn't peace I had, but that's what I want now.

  — Even so... I believe — no one can complain... Not even Otávio... I suppose not even I... — Lídia had not known how to explain, she had remained uncertain, her hands didn't rest on things.

  — What?

  — I don't know. — She looked at Joana and searched for something on her face, intrigued, moving her head.

  — What? — Joana repeated.

  — I don't understand. Joana almost blushed.

  — I too. I've never penetrated my own heart. Something had been said.

  Joana walked up to the window, looked into the garden where Lídia's child would play, the child that was now in Lídia's womb, the child that would be nourished by Lídia's breasts, that would be Lídia. Or Otávio, unripe fruit? No Lídia, the one who is transmitting herself. Were they to cut her through the middle — the sound of fresh leaves splitting — she would open up like a pomegranate, wholesome and pink, as transparent as bright eyes. The base of her life was as gentle as a stream flowing through a meadow. And in that meadow she herself moved, confident and serene as an animal grazing. She compared her with Otávio, for whom life would never be more than a little private adventure. And with herself, using other people as a sombre background against which her figure stood out, resplendent and imposing. Lídia's verses: Silence alone is my prayer, oh Lord, and I can say no more; I am so happy feeling that I silence myself to feel even more; it was in silence that a spider's subtle and fragile web formed inside me: this sweet ignorance of life which allows me to live. Or was everything a lie? Oh, God, the more she needed to act, the more she lost herself in foolish thoughts. Everything was almost certainly a lie, it was even possible that Lídia was much less innocent than she imagined. But even so, she was afraid to remain near her, to look at her reluctantly with a little effort, to make her conscious of herself. To preserve her, without changing her colouring or her precious voice.

  — He told me that story about the little old man... you threw the book at him, such an old man... Before I understood, but now I don't know how you were able... — Lídia had asked.

  But it was true.

  Lídia looked at her, her lips parted, waiting for her answer. And suddenly she could see quite clearly that she had no wish to struggle against that woman. She shook her bewildered head. Her face melted, trembled, its features wavered in search of some expression:

  — I didn't do that intentionally, you know? No, I didn't do... Lídia went on anxiously, her face punctured by rapid tremors... Why should I want to deceive you? No, no, that's not what I mean to say, it isn't that...

  And unexpectedly, taking Joana unawares, she burst into tears and cried her heart out. She's about to have a child, she's nervous, Joana thought. The other humiliated herself wearily:

  — It wouldn't bother me to steal Otávio from another woman. But I didn't know that there was you... Not just anyone like me, but someone so...so good... so sublime...

  Joana was taken aback. Ah, I was striving for this: I succeeded in being sublime... as in days gone by... No, no, it isn't quite like this, I didn't force the situation, how could I, with the steel scoring and chilling my flesh? Don't put me under that light, with the wrinkles on my foreh
ead so obvious. I must find that degree of light and shade in which I suddenly become fleshy, my lipstick darkening like an ingrained bloodstain, my face white as chalk beneath my hair... Once more they are pressing the steel blade against my heart. When I leave, she will despise me precisely at the moment when she is dazzled. I am instantly wonderful... God, God...I set off running, hallucinating, my body flying, hesitating... where to? There is a startled, light substance in the air which I have managed to secure, it's like the second that precedes the crying of an infant. That night, I don't know when, there were stairways, fluttering fans, soft lights swaying their gentle rays like the nodding heads of indulgent mothers, there was a man watching me from that line beyond the horizon, I was a stranger, but I triumphed somehow, even if it meant despising something. Everything glided smoothly, in quiet harmony. It was almost coming to an end — the end of what? of that noble, languid staircase, bowing, waving its long, gleaming arm, its magnificent and proud handrail, night coming to an end — as I slipped to the centre of the room, light as a bubble of air. And suddenly, loud as a clap of thunder, yet as mute as silent fear, and, suddenly one more step and I couldn't go on! The hem of my organza dress shuddered into an ugly grimace, struggled, writhed, tore on the sharp edge of a piece of furniture and there it remained trembling, gasping, perplexed beneath my look of amazement. And suddenly things had hardened, an orchestra had exploded into tortuous harmonies and fallen silent immediately, there was something victorious and tragic in the air. I discovered that deep down I held no surprises: that everything was slowly heading towards that mystery which had now precipitated on to its true plane. I wanted to escape at once, weeping over my wretched dress without its hem, torn and disconsolate. The lights now shone with intensity and pride, the fans exposed radiant, mocking faces, there from beyond the horizon the man was laughing in my direction, the banisters recoiled, and closed their eyes. No one needed to tell any more lies now that I already knew everything! Once again, I shall throw myself headlong into another state. Why? Why? I'm getting out of here, I'm going home, from one minute to the next the tear in my dress, to hear the poignant strains of the orchestra followed by sudden silence, all the musicians lying dead on the platform, in that great hall, frenzied and empty. I must look straight ahead at the tear, but I've always been afraid of exploding with pain like the strains of the orchestra. No one suspects just how far I can reach, almost in triumph, as if I were some creation: it's that feeling of super-human power achieved with a certain degree of suffering. But the next minute you cannot tell if it's a feeling of power or of absolute impotency, just like wishing with one's body and brain to move a finger and simply not succeeding. It isn't simply not succeeding: but all things laughing and weeping at the same time. No, I certainly didn't invent this situation, and that is what I find most surprising. For my craving for experience couldn't explain that cold metal resting on my warm flesh, warmed at last by the affection of yesterday. Oh, don't make a martyr of yourself: you know that you couldn't continue in the same state for very long: once more you would open and close circles of life, throwing them aside, withered... That moment, too, would pass, even if Lídia should not reclaim Otávio, even if I were never to know that Otávio had not abandoned her, although married to me. Am I not perhaps mixing a certain happiness, sweet and ironic, with that threat of suffering? Am I not perhaps loving myself at this moment? Only when I leave this place shall I permit myself to look at the tear on my dress. Nothing has happened except that yesterday I had begun my renewal and now I am withdrawing because that woman is nervous, she's expecting Otávio's child. Especially since there has been no essential transformation, all this already existed, there was simply the tear in the dress, revealing certain things. And truly, truly, truly throbbing headache, weariness, truly everything was heading this way.

  — I, too, could have a child, she said aloud. Her voice sounded clear and pleasing.

  — Yes — Lídia had murmured in amazement.

  — I, too, could have a child. Why not!

  — No...

  — No? But yes... I could give Otávio a child, not now, but whenever it suited me. I could have a child and then give you back Otávio.

  — But this is monstrous! — Lídia had screamed.

  — But why? Is it monstrous to keep two women? You know damn well it isn't. I suppose it feels good to be pregnant. But is it enough for someone to be expecting a child or is that still too little?

  — It's a nice feeling, Lídia had said wearily, her eyes open.

  — So?

  — You also feel nervous about childbirth at times, the other replied mechanically.

  — Don't be frightened, there isn't an animal that doesn't breed. You'll have an easy delivery and so shall I. We've both been blessed with a broad pelvis.

  — Yes...

  — I also want everything life has to offer. Why not? Do you think I'm sterile? Not one little bit. I haven't had any children because I didn't want them.

  I can feel myself holding a child, Joana thought. Sleep, my baby, sleep, I tell it. The child is warm and I am melancholy. But it's the melancholy of happiness, that peace and reassurance that leaves you looking calm and unperturbed. And when my child touches me he doesn't rob my thoughts like others. But after I've given him milk from these delicate and attractive breasts, my child will thrive on my strength and crush me with his life. He will distance himself from me and I shall become his useless old mother. I won't feel cheated. But simply defeated and I shall say: I know nothing, I'm capable of conceiving a child yet I know nothing. God will accept my humility and say: I was capable of conceiving the world and I know nothing. I shall feel closer to Him and the woman with the voice. My child will stir in my arms and I shall tell myself: Joana, Joana, this is good. I shall utter no other word for truth will bring comfort to my arms.

  The Man

  Between one instant and the next, between the past and the future, the white uncertainty of an interval. Empty as the distance from one minute to another on the dial of the clock. The core of events arising silent and dead, a fraction of eternity.

  Perhaps no more than a quiet second separating one stretch of life from the next. Not even a second, she couldn't calculate it as time, yet drawn out like an endless straight line. Profound, coming from afar-a black bird, a dot growing on the horizon, approaching one's conscience like a ball thrown from the end to the beginning. And exploding before eyes perplexed in essence by silence. Leaving behind the perfect interval, without knowing how to merge it with life. To carry forever that tiny dot — blind and intact, much too swift to allow itself to be revealed.

  Joana felt it as she walked across Lídia's tiny garden, not knowing where she was going, only that she was leaving behind all that had lived. When she closed the little gate, she was leaving Lídia and Otávio behind, and, once more solitary in herself, she walked away.

  The beginning of a storm had abated and the fresh air circulated pleasantly. She climbed the hill once more and her heart was still beating without any rhythm. She sought the peace of those paths at that hour, between afternoon and evening, an invisible cicada humming the same melody. The old damp walls in ruins, invaded by ivy and creepers sensitive to the wind. She halted and without her footsteps she could hear the silence stir. Only her own body disturbed that calm. She imagined it without her presence and divined the freshness which those dead things must have when mixed with others, precariously alive as in the beginning of creation.

  The tall, shuttered houses, guarded like towers. One of the mansions was reached by a long drive, sombre and quiet, the end of the world. Close by, there was a descent, the starting point of another road, and it became clear that this was not the end. The mansion was squat and wide, its windows broken, the shutters drawn and covered in dust. She was familiar with that garden where soft tufts of grass were interspersed with crimson roses and old, rusty tins. Under the flowering shrubs of jasmine she would find faded newspapers, splinters of damp wood from previous graftings
. Amidst the heavy, old trees, the sparrows and pigeons scratching at the soil as usual. A little bird interrupted its flight, hopped around before disappearing into one of the thickets. The mansion proud and serene in its ruined state. To die there. One could only reach that house when the end had come. To die in that damp earth so suitable for receiving corpses. But it wasn't death she craved. She was also afraid.

  A thread of water seeped incessantly through the dark wall. Joana paused for a moment, looked at it with a vacant, impassive expression. During one of her strolls she had already sat beside the rusty little gate, her oval face pressed against the cold railings, trying to sink into the dank, murky smell of the yard. That impenetrable quietness, that odour. But this had been a long time ago. Now she had separated herself from the past.