One of his friends, José Pires, suggested a visit to Botafogo to drive away Soares’s melancholy mood. Soares agreed. Alas, a trip to Botafogo was too run-of-the-mill to distract him. Then they thought of visiting Corcovado, an idea that was immediately accepted and acted upon.
But can anything distract a young man in Soares’s position? The visit to Corcovado proved equally futile, leaving him so fatigued that, on the return journey, he fell sound asleep.
When he woke, he sent for Pires to come and speak to him urgently. An hour later, a carriage pulled up outside the door: it was Pires, but he was accompanied by a dark-complexioned young woman who answered to the name of Vitória. The two walked into Soares’s living room talking loudly, in the casual manner of family members.
“I thought you were ill,” Vitória said to the master of the house.
“No, I’m not,” he replied, “but what are you doing here?”
“That’s a good one!” said José Pires. “She came because she’s my boon companion, of course. Did you want to talk to me about something in particular?”
“I did.”
“Well, let’s find a quiet corner somewhere. Vitória can stay here, leafing through your albums.”
“I certainly will not,” said the young woman. “If that’s how it is, I’d better leave. On just one condition: that you both come to my house afterwards. We’re having big supper party tonight.”
“Agreed!” said Pires.
Vitória departed, and the two young men were left alone.
Pires was a frivolous, gossipy type. As soon as he sensed a bit of tittle-tattle, he would do his best to find out all the details. He felt flattered that Soares should confide in him and sensed that he was about to tell him something important. He therefore adopted a suitably earnest air. He settled himself comfortably in an armchair, rested his chin on the handle of his cane, and began the attack with these words:
“Right, here we are alone. What did you want to tell me?”
Soares told him everything; he read out the banker’s letter; he laid bare to Pires his utter poverty. He said that he could see no possible solution, even confessing frankly that he had spent long hours contemplating suicide.
“Suicide!” exclaimed Pires. “You must be insane!”
“Insane!” retorted Soares. “Well, I can see no other way out of this particular cul-de-sac. Besides, it’s only half a suicide, given that poverty is half a death.”
“I agree that poverty is not a pleasant thing, and I even think . . .”
Pires broke off there. An idea had just crossed his mind, the idea that Soares might end their conversation by asking him for money. Pires had one firm belief: never lend money to friends. After all, he would say, you don’t lend blood.
Soares failed to notice this sudden pause, and said:
“Living like a pauper after being so rich, it’s just impossible.”
“What do you want from me, then?” asked Pires, who felt it would be best to take the bull by the horns.
“Advice.”
“Useless advice, given that you’ve already made a decision.”
“Possibly, but I must confess it’s not so easy to leave life, and however good or bad life is, it’s always hard to die. On the other hand, revealing my poverty to the people who have always known me as a rich man is a humiliation too far. What would you do in my place?”
“Well,” began Pires, “there are various different possibilities . . .”
“For example.”
“First possibility: go to New York and make a fortune.”
“No good. I’d rather stay in Rio de Janeiro.”
“Second possibility: marry a rich woman.”
“That’s easy enough to say, but who?”
“Look around. Didn’t you have a cousin who was in love with you?”
“I don’t think she is anymore, and, besides, she’s not rich. She only has thirty contos, barely enough for a year.”
“That’s a good principle in life.”
“Thank you. What else?”
“Third and best possibility: go to your uncle, wheedle your way into his affections, tell him you repent of your old ways, ask him for a job, and see if he’ll make you his sole heir.”
Soares said nothing, but this seemed to him a good idea.
“You like that third possibility, don’t you?” asked Pires, laughing.
“It’s not at all bad, although I know it will be a long, hard process. Then again, I don’t have much choice.”
“Good,” said Pires, getting up. “You just have to be sensible. It will require some sacrifice on your part, but, remember, this is the only way you’re going to get a fortune quickly. Your uncle is not a well man and could kick the bucket any day now. Make good use of your time. And now let’s go to Vitória’s supper party.”
“No, I’m not going,” said Soares, “I need to get used to my new life.”
“Fine. Goodbye, then.”
“Look, I told you all this in strictest confidence. It’s our secret.”
“I’ll be as silent as the grave,” said Pires, going down the stairs.
The following day, though, all their young friends knew that Soares was about to withdraw from the world . . . because he had run out of money. Soares himself saw this in his friends’ faces. They all seemed to be saying: What a shame! That’ll put a dent in our social life!
Pires never again visited him.
II
The name of Soares’s uncle was Major Luís da Cunha Vilela, and he was, indeed, an old and ailing man, although this was no guarantee that he would die soon, for Major Vilela maintained a strict regime which kept him alive. Well into his sixties now, he was, by turns, jovial and stern. He loved to laugh, but was implacable when it came to bad habits. A constitutionalist by necessity, in his heart he was an absolutist. He mourned the loss of the old ways and constantly criticized the new. He had, after all, been the last man to stop wearing his hair in a pigtail.
Major Vilela lived in Catumbi with his niece Adelaide and another, more elderly female relative. He led a very patriarchal life. Caring little or nothing about what went on in the outside world, he dedicated himself entirely to his household, where a few friends and certain neighboring families occasionally came to visit and spend the evenings. The major was always cheerful, even when prostrated by his rheumatism. Fellow rheumatics will find this hard to believe, but I can confirm that this is true.
One morning—fortunately a morning on which the major was entirely free of pain, and was laughing and joking with his two female relatives—Soares turned up at his uncle’s door.
When the major saw the visiting card bearing his nephew’s name, he thought it must be a joke. His nephew was the last person he would expect to visit him. He hadn’t seen him for two years, and a year and a half had passed between his last two visits. However, such was the seriousness with which the houseboy announced that Senhor Luís was waiting in the parlor that the major finally believed him.
“What do you make of it, Adelaide?”
Adelaide did not respond.
The major went straight to the parlor.
Soares had pondered how best to approach his uncle. Falling on his knees before him would be too dramatic; falling into his arms would require a spontaneity he did not possess; besides, Soares could not bear to feel or feign an emotion he did not have. He considered beginning a conversation that had nothing to do with his real reason for being there, and slowly moving toward an admission that he was ready to change his ways. The disadvantage of this approach was that any reconciliation would inevitably be preceded by a sermon, something he could well do without. He had still not yet chosen one of the many alternatives that came into his head when the major appeared at the door to the parlor.
The major stood there silently, regarding his nephew with a stern, interrogative eye.
Soares hesitated for a moment, but since he did not stand to benefit from prolonging the situation, on a natural
impulse he went over to his uncle and held out his hand.
“Uncle,” he said, “you need not say anything. The look in your eyes says it all. I was a sinner and I repent of my sins. Here I am.”
The major took his hand, which Soares kissed with as much respect as he could muster. Then the major went over to a chair and sat down. Soares remained standing.
“If you sincerely do repent, then I open to you both my door and my heart. If your repentance is insincere, then you can leave now. I haven’t been to the theater for a very long time, and I don’t like actors.”
Soares assured him that he was entirely sincere. He admitted that he had been a crazed dissolute, but now that he had reached the age of thirty, it was time to grow up. He saw now that his uncle had been right all along. He had initially dismissed his uncle’s views as the curmudgeonly grumblings of old age, but such levity was only to be expected in a lad brought up to live a life of excess. Luckily, he had seen the light, and his ambition was now to live like any other decent man, his first step being to take on some public position that would oblige him to work and become a serious citizen. It was just a matter of finding such a position.
As he listened to the speech of which I give only an extract above, the major was trying to plumb the depths of Soares’s mind. Was he being sincere? He concluded that the lad’s words were indeed truly heartfelt, so much so that he thought he saw a tear in his eyes, although no tear, not even a pretend one, actually appeared.
When Soares finished speaking, the major held out his hand and clasped the hand held out to him by the young man.
“I believe you, Luís. And I’m glad that you have at last repented. The life you led was neither life nor death; life is more dignified and death more peaceful than the existence you were blithely frittering away. You come here now like a prodigal son. You will have the best place at the table. My family is your family.”
The major continued in this vein, and Soares stood quietly listening to his uncle’s speechifying. He told himself that this was merely one example of the misery yet to come, and would be discounted from his sins.
The major finally led the young man into the dining room, where lunch awaited them.
Adelaide and the elderly female relative were both there. Senhora Antônia de Moura Vilela received Soares with loud exclamations of delight, which Soares found genuinely embarrassing. As for Adelaide, she merely nodded in his direction, without actually looking at him. He returned her nod.
The major noted the coldness of her welcome, but merely snickered in a way peculiar to him, as if he knew the cause.
They sat down at the table, and lunch was interspersed with the major’s jokes, Senhora Antônia’s recriminations, Soares’s explanations and Adelaide’s silence. When the meal was over, the major gave Soares permission to smoke, a concession that the young man resisted at first, then accepted. The ladies left the room, and the two men sat on alone at the table.
“So you’re willing to work?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Well, I’ll see if I can find a job for you. What kind of work would you prefer?”
“Whatever you decide, Uncle, just as long as I’m working.”
“Fine, tomorrow I’ll write a letter of recommendation for you to present to a couple of ministers. Let’s just hope you find a post easily. I want to see you working hard and seriously; I want to see you make a man of yourself. Dissipation produces nothing but debts and disappointments. Do you have any debts?”
“No, none,” said Soares.
He was lying. He had a relatively small debt with his tailor, but he was hoping to pay that off before his uncle found out.
The following day, the major wrote the promised letter, which Soares took to one of the ministers, and, a month later, he was fortunate enough to be employed in an office earning a good wage.
To be fair to the lad, he made an enormous sacrifice in changing his habits, and to judge by his previous record, no one would have thought him capable of such a sacrifice. However, both change and sacrifice could be explained by his desire to resume his life of dissipation. This was merely a rather long parenthesis in Soares’s existence. He was hoping to close the parenthesis and return to the sentence he had begun, in other words, living with Aspasius and carousing with Alcibiades.
His uncle suspected none of this, but he was afraid Soares might be tempted to backslide, either because he was seduced by memories of his former dissipations or had grown bored with the monotony and weariness of work. In order to prevent disaster, he decided to encourage Soares’s political ambitions, thinking that politics would be the perfect remedy for that particular patient, as if it were a well-known fact that Lovelace and Turgot can easily coexist in the same head.
Soares did not discourage the major. He said it was only natural that he should go into politics, even saying that he had occasionally dreamed of having a seat in the Chamber of Deputies.
“I’ll see what I can do,” said his uncle. “But, first, you need to study political science and the history of our government; above all, though, you need to continue being what you are now: a serious young man.”
No sooner said than done, for Soares immediately plunged into his reading and began earnestly studying the debates in the Chamber of Deputies.
Soares did not live with his uncle, but spent any nonworking hours at his house, returning home after a patriarchal tea, very different from the slap-up suppers he had known before.
I shan’t deny that there may not have been a thread linking the two phases of Luís Soares’s life, or that the emigrant from fashionable society did not make the occasional return visit to his homeland. These forays were, however, so secret that no one knew of them, possibly not even the inhabitants of said homeland, with the exception of the chosen few who welcomed the expatriate. This was unusual, because in that land, naturalized citizens are not thought of as foreign, unlike in England, which denies the queen’s subjects the right to choose another country.
Soares occasionally met up with Pires. The convert’s confidant proved his former friendship by offering him a Havana cigar and recounting a few of the triumphs he had enjoyed in the war of love, in which the fool imagined himself to be a consummate general.
Major Vilela’s nephew had been employed for five months, and, so far, his bosses had no reason to complain. Such devotion was worthy of a better cause. On the outside, Luís Soares was a monk, but scratch the surface and you would find the devil.
And that devil could spy in the distance a possible conquest . . .
III
Cousin Adelaide was twenty-four years old, and, in the full flower of her youth, her beauty had the capacity to make men feel they might die of love for her. She was tall and well proportioned; she had a classically shaped head; her brow was broad and clear, her eyes dark and almond-shaped, and her nose slightly aquiline. Anyone studying her for a few moments would feel that she contained all the energies, both of the passions and of the will.
The reader will doubtless remember the cool greeting exchanged by Adelaide and her cousin; you will also recall that Soares had told his friend Pires that he had once been loved by his cousin. Put those two things together. Adelaide’s coolness stemmed from a painful memory; Adelaide had loved her cousin, not with the usual cousinly love, which tends to emerge out of long familiarity rather than from any sudden attraction. She had loved him with all the vigor and warmth of her soul; but, by then, he was already beginning to visit other regions of society and was indifferent to her affections. A friend who knew this secret asked him one day why he did not marry Adelaide, to which Soares answered coldly:
“No one with a fortune like mine would marry, but if I did, I would need to marry someone who had a still larger fortune. Adelaide’s wealth is only a fifth of mine; for her, it would be a really lucrative deal, but not for me.”
The friend who heard this reply gave further proof of his friendship by going to Adelaide and telling her what Soares had said. Thi
s was a tremendous blow, not only because it proved beyond a doubt he did not love her, but because it did not even give her the right to respect him. Soares’s confession was a corpus delicti. The officious confidant was perhaps hoping to pick up the spoils, but as soon as Adelaide heard his treacherous words, she immediately despised the traitor too.
The incident went no further.
Soares’s return to his uncle’s house left Adelaide in a very painful situation; she was forced to have dealings with a man she could not respect. For his part, Soares also felt inhibited, not because he regretted the words he had spoken that day, but because of his uncle, who knew nothing about the affair. The uncle did in fact know, but Soares assumed he didn’t. The major knew of Adelaide’s passion and knew, too, that her cousin had rejected her. He may not have known the actual words repeated to her by Soares’s friend, but he knew the gist; he knew that, as soon as he had felt he was loved, the lad had begun to loathe his cousin, and she, seeing herself repulsed, had begun to loathe him too. He had assumed initially that Soares’s absence from the house was due to her presence there.
Adelaide was the daughter of one of the major’s brothers, an extremely rich and extremely eccentric man, who had died ten years before, leaving his daughter in the care of the major. Her father had been a great traveler and, it transpired, had spent a large part of his fortune on his travels. When he died, his only child, Adelaide, was left with a mere thirty contos, which her uncle preserved intact as her future dowry.
Soares coped as best he could with the strange situation in which he found himself. He never conversed with his cousin, or only enough not to arouse his uncle’s suspicions. She did the same.
But who can control their heart? Adelaide felt her old affection for Soares beginning to resurface. She tried to fight these feelings, but the only way to stop a plant from growing is to tear it out by the roots. The roots were still there. Despite all her efforts, love gradually took the place of hate, and if she had suffered greatly before, that suffering was now multiplied tenfold. A battle began between pride and love. She kept her suffering to herself, though, and said not a word.
The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis Page 6