The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  And so it was in Petrópolis, one December afternoon in 186*, that Azevedo and Adelaide were sitting in the garden of the house in which they guarded their happiness from the outside world. Azevedo was reading aloud, and Adelaide was listening to him, but it was as if she were listening to a heartbeat, so closely did her husband’s voice and the words of the book correspond to her innermost feelings.

  After a while, Azevedo stopped and asked:

  “Shall we pause there?”

  “If you like,” said Adelaide.

  “Yes, we’d better,” said Azevedo, closing the book. “Good things shouldn’t be enjoyed all at one sitting. Let’s leave a little for tonight. Besides, it’s time I moved from the written idyll to the real idyll—and looked at you.”

  Adelaide, in turn, looked at him and said:

  “It’s as if we were beginning our honeymoon all over again.”

  “And we are,” added Azevedo, “if marriage is not an eternal honeymoon, what is it? The joining of two existences in order to ponder discreetly the best way of eating cucumbers and cabbages? No, thank you! I believe marriage should be one long falling in love. Don’t you think so too?”

  “I feel it rather than think it,” said Adelaide.

  “You feel, and that’s enough.”

  “But that women should feel is only natural, whereas men—”

  “Men are men.”

  “What in women is sentiment, in men is sentimentality. I’ve been told that ever since I was child.”

  “Well, they’ve been lying to you all along,” said Azevedo, laughing.

  “I hope so!”

  “It’s true. And never trust people who talk a lot, be they men or women. You have an example close to home. Here’s Emília, who is always talking about how independent she is, but how many times has she been married? Twice so far, and she’s only twenty-five. She would do better to talk less and marry less.”

  “She’s only joking,” said Adelaide.

  “All right, but what there can be no joking about is that our three months of marriage feel like three minutes.”

  “Three whole months!” exclaimed Adelaide.

  “How time flies!” said Azevedo.

  “Will you always say that?” asked Adelaide, an incredulous look on her face.

  Azevedo kissed her and asked:

  “Are you beginning to have doubts?”

  “No, just a little fear. It’s so wonderful to be so happy!”

  “You will always be happy and always equally happy. There’s no other possibility.”

  At that moment, they heard a voice coming from the garden gate.

  “What’s all this talk about possibilities?”

  They both looked up to see who it was.

  At the garden gate stood a tall, good-looking man, elegantly dressed, wearing yellow gloves and carrying a small whip.

  Azevedo did not, at first, appear to recognize him. Adelaide looked from one to the other, bewildered. This, however, lasted no more than a minute, then Azevedo cried:

  “It’s Tito! Come in, Tito!”

  Tito sauntered nonchalantly up the garden path. He embraced Azevedo and bowed graciously to Adelaide.

  “This is my wife,” said Azevedo, introducing Adelaide to the new arrival.

  “I thought as much,” said Tito, “and let me take this opportunity to congratulate you.”

  “Did you not receive a wedding invitation?”

  “I did, but I was in Valparaíso.”

  “Sit down and tell us about your trip.”

  “That would take a long time,” said Tito, taking a seat. “What I can tell you is that I disembarked yesterday in Rio. I tried to find out where you were living and was told that you were in Petrópolis temporarily. I rested a little, then, today, I took the boat from Prainha and here I am. I suspected that a poetic soul like you would want to hide your happiness away in some secret corner of the world. And this really is a little piece of paradise. A garden, pergolas, a light, elegant house, a book. Love poetry too. Bravo! Perfect! Tityre, tu patulae recubans . . . I have stumbled upon an idyll. And you, shepherdess, where is your crook?”

  Adelaide laughed out loud.

  Tito went on:

  “You even laugh like a happy shepherdess. And you, Theocritus, what are you up to? Letting the days flow by like the waters of the Paraíba? O fortunate creature!”

  “Still the same old Tito!” said Azevedo.

  “The same madman, you mean? Do you think he’s right, senhora?”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, yes, I do.”

  “No, I don’t mind in the least. I even feel rather honored, for it’s true, I am an inoffensive madman. But you two really do seem unusually happy. How many months have you been married?”

  “It will be three months on Sunday,” said Adelaide.

  “I was just saying to Adelaide that it seems to me more like three minutes,” added Azevedo.

  Tito looked at them, smiling, and said:

  “Three months or three minutes! There you have the whole truth about life. If you were laid upon a gridiron, like Saint Lawrence, five minutes would seem like five months. And yet still we talk of time. What is time, after all? It’s a matter of how we experience it. Months for the unhappy and minutes for the happy!”

  “And what happiness, eh?” cried Azevedo.

  “Complete and utter bliss, I imagine. Husband to a seraph, in mind and heart, ah, I’m sorry, I forgot you were there, Adelaide . . . but don’t blush. You’ll hear me say the same thing twenty times a day. I always say what I think. You must be the envy of all our friends.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Of course not. How could you, secluded as you are in this little hideaway of yours? And you’re quite right. Being happy in full view of everyone else would mean sharing your happiness, and out of respect for that principle, I really should leave . . .”

  And, saying this, Tito stood up.

  “Stop talking and stay with us.”

  “True friends are also true happiness,” said Adelaide.

  “Ah!”

  “It might be good for you to spend a little time at our school and learn the science of marriage,” said Azevedo.

  “Whatever for?” asked Tito, brandishing his whip.

  “In order to get married.”

  “Hm,” said Tito.

  “Don’t you want to?” asked Adelaide.

  “So you haven’t changed your mind, then?”

  “No,” answered Tito.

  Adelaide looked curious and asked:

  “Do you have a horror of marriage?”

  “I simply have no vocation for it,” said Tito. “And it is purely a matter of vocation. If you don’t have it, don’t do it, it’s a complete waste of time and fatal for one’s peace of mind. That has been my belief for a long time now.”

  “Your time has perhaps not yet come.”

  “And it never will,” said Tito.

  “I seem to remember,” said Azevedo, offering his friend a cigar, “that there was a day when you tossed aside your usual theories and fell deeply in love.”

  “I would hardly describe it as ‘deeply in love.’ Providence did one day provide me with confirmation of my solitary instincts. I began courting a young lady . . .”

  “Oh, yes, it was a funny business.”

  “What happened?” asked Adelaide.

  “Tito went to a dance and saw a young woman. The next day, he went to her house and, just like that, asked for her hand in marriage. She said . . . what was it she said, now?”

  “She wrote me a note saying that I was a fool and should leave her alone. She didn’t actually use the word ‘fool,’ but it came to the same thing. Needless to say, that wasn’t the response I was hoping for. Anyway, I turned tail and have never been in love since.”

  “But were you in love on that occasion?” asked Adelaide.

  “I don’t know if it was love,” answered Tito, “it was something . . . But that was a good
five years ago. Since then I haven’t met anyone who made my heart beat faster.”

  “So much the worse for you.”

  “I know,” said Tito with a shrug. “But then, while I may not have enjoyed the private pleasures of love, I at least haven’t endured the miseries or the disappointments. And that is a great good fortune.”

  “True love knows nothing of such things,” said Adelaide sententiously.

  “Really? Look, let’s change the subject, shall we? I could deliver a speech on the matter, but I prefer—”

  “You must stay here with us,” Azevedo broke in. “That’s decided.”

  “No, I can’t . . .”

  “You can and must stay.”

  “But I’ve already told my manservant to get me a room at the Hotel de Bragança . . .”

  “Well, tell him otherwise, and stay here.”

  “I don’t want to disturb your peace.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “Stay!” said Adelaide.

  “All right, I’ll stay.”

  “And tomorrow,” said Adelaide, “once you’ve rested, you must tell us the secret of this independence of mind you’re so proud of.”

  “It’s no secret,” said Tito. “It’s this: given the choice between love and a game of ombre, I don’t think twice, I always choose ombre. By the way, Ernesto, I met an amazing player of ombre in Chile. He played the boldest gascarola I’ve ever seen . . . Do you know what a gascarola is, senhora?”

  “No,” said Adelaide.

  “Well, I’ll explain.”

  Azevedo glanced to one side and said:

  “Ah, here’s Emília.”

  There at the garden gate was a lady arm in arm with an older man of about fifty.

  Dona Emília was what one might call a beautiful woman; she was lofty in stature and lofty in nature too. She was the kind of woman who would impose from on high any feelings of love she might inspire. Her manners and her graces gave her a rather queenly air, which made one feel like leading her to a throne.

  She dressed simply but elegantly, a natural elegance that was quite different from being overdressed; indeed, I once came up with this maxim: “There are the elegantly dressed and there are the overdressed.”

  Her main points of beauty were her beautiful dark eyes, large and bright, her thick brown hair, her nose as straight as Sappho’s, her small red mouth, satin cheeks, and the neck and arms of a statue.

  As for the older man on her arm, he was, as I said, about fifty years old. He was what we call in Portuguese chão—vulgar and coarse, an old rake. Painted and corseted, he was like an ancient ruin rebuilt by modern hands, which gave him that in-between appearance, lacking both the austerity of old age and the freshness of youth. He had clearly been a handsome fellow in his day, but any conquests he may have made in the past would now be but faded memories.

  When Emília came into the garden, everyone was already on their feet. She shook Azevedo’s hand and went to kiss Adelaide on the cheek. She was just about to sit down in the chair Azevedo offered her, when she noticed Tito, who was standing slightly apart.

  They greeted each other rather stiffly. Tito seemed calm and coolly polite, and, afterward, Emília kept her eyes fixed on him, as if summoning up some past memory.

  Once the necessary introductions had been made, including Diogo Franco (the name of the old man on Emília’s arm), they all sat down.

  The first to speak was Emília:

  “I wouldn’t have come today if it hadn’t been for Senhor Diogo’s kindness.”

  Adelaide looked at Diogo and said:

  “You’re a marvel, Senhor Diogo.”

  Diogo drew himself up and murmured rather modestly:

  “No, really, it was nothing.”

  “Just wait until you hear. He’s not only one marvel, he’s two. Did you know, he’s going to give me a present?”

  “A present!” said Azevedo.

  “Yes,” Emília went on, “a present he has ordered to be sent from the farthest-flung corners of Europe, a souvenir of his travels there as an adolescent . . .”

  Diogo was positively radiant.

  “No, really, it’s a mere trifle,” he said, gazing tenderly at Emília.

  “Whatever is it?” asked Adelaide.

  “It is . . . can you guess? A white bear!”

  “A white bear?”

  “Really?”

  “It’s about to arrive, apparently, but he only told me about it yesterday. Isn’t that sweet?”

  “A bear!” Azevedo said.

  Tito leaned toward his friend and whispered in his ear:

  “That will make two of them.”

  Overjoyed at this response to the news of his present, but quite wrong about the nature of that response, Diogo said:

  “No, really, it’s nothing. It’s just a bear, although I did ask for a truly beautiful one to be sent. You probably can’t imagine what a white bear looks like. It’s completely white, you know.”

  “You don’t say!” said Tito.

  “It’s a wonderful beast!” said Diogo.

  “I’m sure it is,” said Tito. “Just imagine that, a white bear that’s completely white.” Then, sotto voce, he asked Azevedo: “Who is this man?”

  “He’s courting Emília; he’s fifty years old.”

  “And what does she do about that?”

  “Oh, she just ignores him.”

  “Is that what she says?”

  “Yes, and it’s true.”

  While they were talking, Diogo was playing with the fob-chain on his watch, and the two ladies were chatting. After that last exchange between Azevedo and Tito, Emília turned to Azevedo and asked:

  “Is it true, Senhor Azevedo, that you celebrate birthdays in this house and don’t invite me?”

  “But it was pouring with rain,” said Adelaide.

  “Ungrateful girl. You know perfectly well that rain doesn’t count as an excuse.”

  “Besides,” said Azevedo, “it was a very modest affair.”

  “Even so, I’m practically family!”

  “The thing is, they’re still on their honeymoon despite being married for five whole months,” said Tito.

  “And we’ll have none of your sarcasm, thank you,” said Azevedo.

  “That’s very naughty of you, Senhor Tito!”

  “Tito?” Emília asked Adelaide quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, Dona Emília doesn’t yet know about our friend Tito,” said Azevedo. “I’m almost afraid to tell her.”

  “Is it so very bad?”

  “It might be,” said Tito casually.

  “Very bad!” exclaimed Adelaide.

  “What is it, then?” asked Emília.

  “He is a man incapable of love,” Adelaide went on. “Indeed, he couldn’t be more indifferent to love. In short, he prefers, what was it, now? Oh, yes, he prefers a game of ombre to love.”

  “Is that what he told you?” asked Emília.

  “And I would say it again,” said Tito. “But be assured, I say this not because of women, but because of myself. I believe that all women deserve my adoration, but I am so fashioned that all I can offer them is my disinterested esteem.”

  Emília looked at him and said:

  “If that isn’t vanity, then it’s a disease.”

  “You’ll forgive me when I say that I believe it to be neither a disease nor vanity. It’s simply my nature: some people hate oranges, others hate love affairs; now, whether it’s the tough skin that’s the problem, I really don’t know, but that’s the way it is.”

  “He’s very hard, isn’t he?” said Emília, looking at Adelaide.

  “Me? Hard?” said Tito, getting up. “I’m as delicate as silk, a mere baby, a miracle of gentleness . . . It hurts me deeply to be so unlike other men and so impervious to amorous influences, but what can I do? It’s not my fault.”

  “Just you wait,” said Azevedo. “Time will change you.”

  “But when? I’m already twenty
-nine.”

  “Twenty-nine?” said Emília.

  “Yes, I turned twenty-nine at Easter.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “You’re most kind.”

  The conversation continued in this vein until dinner was announced. Emília and Diogo had already dined and only stayed in order to keep the Azevedos and Tito company, Tito declaring himself to be absolutely starving.

  The conversation over dinner touched only on banal topics.

  When coffee was served, a servant arrived from the hotel where Diogo was staying; he brought with him a letter for Diogo, with a note on the envelope announcing that it was urgent. Diogo took the letter, read it, and seemed to turn pale, but he, nevertheless, continued to take part in the general conversation. This incident, though, prompted Adelaide to ask Emília:

  “When will your eternal inamorato ever set you free, do you think?”

  “I have no idea!” said Emília. “He’s not a bad man, but he’s got into the habit of telling me every week that he feels a burning passion for me.”

  “Well, if it’s only a weekly declaration . . .”

  “Yes, that’s all it is, and he does have the advantage of being an infallible companion whenever I go out and about and he’s a reliable hurdy-gurdy when at home, always churning out the same stories. He’s already described to me about fifty times the amorous battles he’s fought. His one wish is to travel around the world with me. If the subject comes up in the evening, as it usually does, I order some tea, which is an excellent way of cooling his ardor. He’s mad about tea, as mad as he is about me! But what do you make of that white bear? What if he really has sent for a bear?”

  “You must accept it.”

  “How I am going to feed a bear? As if I didn’t have enough to do!”

  Adelaide smiled and said:

  “It sounds to me as if you’ll end up falling in love . . .”

  “Who with? The bear?”

  “No, with Diogo.”