The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  “No, it hasn’t.”

  “Well, that’s because souls are incombustible. I carried on upward; when I was forty thousand leagues off, I heard delightful music, and as soon as I reached five thousand leagues, a swarm of souls descended and bore me aloft on a palanquin of ether and feathers. Shortly afterward, I entered the new sun, which is the planet of the virtuous souls of the Earth. I am no poet, Monsignor, and I dare not describe to you the magnificence of that heavenly abode. Even if I were a poet, the language of mere humans would not suffice to convey the feeling of grandeur, bedazzlement, and joy, the rapturous melodies, the shimmering lights and colors, a thing both indefinable and incomprehensible. It has to be seen to be believed. Once inside, I discovered that my arrival completed another set of one thousand souls; this was the reason for the extraordinary celebrations they laid on for me, and which lasted for two centuries, or, by our reckoning, forty-eight hours. When the festivities were finally over, they invited me to return to Earth to take on a new life; it was a privilege granted to each thousandth soul. I thanked them, but refused; however, refusal was not permitted. It was an eternal law. The only liberty they allowed me was my choice of vehicle; I could be reborn either as a prince or a bus conductor. What was I to do? What would you have done in my shoes?”

  “I couldn’t possibly say; it would all depend . . .”

  “Quite right; it all depends on the circumstances. But imagine that my circumstances were such that it gave me no pleasure to return to this world. I was the victim of inexperience, Monsignor, and, for that very reason, I had a terrible old age. Then I remembered what I had always heard my father and other old people saying when they saw some young man: “Oh, to be that age again, knowing what I know now!” With this in mind, I announced that I cared not a jot whether I was born a beggar or a prince, as long as I was born with experience. You can scarcely imagine the universal laughter this provoked. Job, who presides over the province of patient souls up there, told me that such a wish was sheer nonsense; but I insisted and I got my way. Shortly afterward, I slipped back through space; I spent nine months traversing the void until I plumped down into the arms of a nursemaid, and was named José Maria. Your name’s Romualdo, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. Romualdo de Sousa Caldas.”

  “Would you be any relation of Father Sousa Caldas?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “He’s a fine poet, Father Caldas. Poetry is a gift; I myself could never compose so much as a sonnet. But let’s cut to the chase. First I’ll tell you what happened to me, then I’ll tell you what I would like from you, Reverend. Meanwhile, do you mind, if I smoke . . . ?”

  Monsignor made a gesture of assent, without losing sight of the cane lying on José Maria’s lap. José Maria slowly rolled a cigarette. He was in his early thirties, rather pale, and with a gaze that, at times, was dim and dull, and, at others, bright and restless. He’d appeared just after the priest had finished lunch, and asked to speak to him on a grave and urgent matter. The monsignor asked him to come in and sit down; within ten minutes he could tell that the man was a lunatic. He could excuse the incoherence of his ideas and his astonishing imagination; indeed, they might even provide him with a useful case study. But the stranger seemed very angry, and this put the fear of God into the peaceable cleric. What could he and his equally elderly manservant do to defend themselves against a strong man who had clearly lost his mind? While waiting for the police to arrive, Monsignor Caldas was all smiles and nods, playing along with whatever emotion the man expressed, be it astonishment, dread, or joy—a useful policy with lunatics, women, and princes.

  José Maria finally lit his cigarette, and continued:

  “I was reborn on January 5, 1861. I’ll spare you the details of my second childhood, because, at that stage, experience was purely instinctive. I suckled very sparingly and cried as little as I could so as not to be smacked. I began to walk rather late, for fear of falling, leaving me with a certain weakness in the legs. Running and tumbling, climbing trees, jumping over walls, trading blows, all of which have their uses, were things I steered well clear of, for fear of bruises and bleeding. To put it frankly, I had a dull childhood, and school was no different. They said I was foolish and lazy. In fact, I was simply avoiding everything. During all that time I don’t believe I ever once slipped and fell, but then I never ran, either. I swear to God, Reverend, it was a terrible time, and, when I compare the bumps and bruises of my former life with the tedium of this one, I’d rather have the bumps and bruises. I grew up; I became a young man and entered the usual romantic phase . . . Don’t be shocked, Reverend; I will be chaste, just like the first supper I attended. Do you know what a supper with young men and easy women is like, Reverend?”

  “How could I possibly know that?”

  “I was nineteen years old,” José Maria went on, “and you can’t imagine my friends’ surprise when I announced that I was ready to go to such a supper. No one expected a thing like that from a cautious young man like myself, who balked at everything, whether it was going to bed late, oversleeping, or wandering alone in the dead of night, and who lived, so to speak, by feeling his way cautiously forward in the dark. Anyway, I went to the supper; it was held at the Jardim Botânico and was a splendid occasion. Food, wine, candles, flowers, the young men’s high spirits, the ladies’ eyes, and, above all, the appetite of a twenty-year-old. Would you believe it? I didn’t eat a thing. The memory of three bouts of indigestion forty years earlier, during my first life, made me hold back. I lied, saying I was indisposed. One of the ladies came and sat on my right, to cure me; another also got up and came and sat on my left, with the same objective. ‘You cure from one side and I’ll cure from the other,’ they said. They were jolly, vivacious, and wily, with a reputation for devouring young men’s hearts and souls. I confess that I took fright and recoiled. They did everything, absolutely everything, but all in vain. I left in the morning, in love with both of them, but with neither of them on my arm, and almost faint with hunger. What do you make of that?” concluded José Maria, putting his hands on his knees, with his elbows sticking out.

  “Well . . .”

  “I won’t say another word, Reverend; you can guess the rest. My second life is one of expansive, youthful impetuosity reined in by stiff, starchy experience. I live like Eurico, tied to my own corpse. No, it’s not a good comparison. What does my life look like to you?”

  “I’m not very imaginative. I suppose you live like a bird, flapping your wings and tethered by your feet . . .”

  “Precisely. Not very imaginative, you say. Well, you’ve certainly found the right words there; you’ve hit the nail on the head, Reverend. A bird, a great big bird, flapping its wings, just as you say.”

  José Maria stood up, flapping his arms as if they were wings. As he got up, his cane fell to the floor, but he didn’t notice. He continued flapping his arms as he stood facing the priest and saying, yes, that was exactly what he was, a bird, a great big bird. Each time his arms struck his thighs, he raised himself up on his heels, giving his body a rhythmic movement, his feet together, to show that they were tied. Monsignor nodded approvingly, at the same time straining his ears for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Only silence. All he could hear were the noises from outside: buggies and carriages coming down the street, barrow boys hawking their wares, and a piano somewhere nearby. Finally, José Maria sat down again, after picking up his cane, and continued as follows:

  “A bird, a great big bird. The adventure that brings me here will suffice to show just what a felicitous comparison that is. It was a matter of conscience, a passion, a woman: a widow by the name of Dona Clemência. She is twenty-six years old and has eyes that are just endless, not so much in size as in expression, and, to complete the picture, a downy upper lip. She is the daughter of a retired professor. Black dresses suit her so well that, at times, I tell her, with a smile, that she only became a widow so that she could wear mourning. Ha ha! Only joking! We met a year ag
o, at the home of a plantation owner from Cantagalo. We left there completely in love with each other. I know what you’re going to ask me: Why don’t we get married, since we’re both free to do so?”

  “Yes, quite.”

  “But good God, man! That’s the very nub of the matter We’re both free, we love each other, and we aren’t getting married: such is the murky situation I have come to lay before you, Reverend, so that your theology, or whatever you want to call it, may explain it, if it can. We returned to Rio as sweethearts. Clemência was living with her elderly father, and with a brother who worked in commerce; I made the acquaintance of both men, and began to visit their house, on Rua de Matacavalos. Furtive glances, clasped hands, a word here, another there, then a sentence, two sentences, and before you know it we were lovers. One night, on the staircase landing, we exchanged our first kiss. Please excuse such lapses, Monsignor, and pretend that you’re hearing my confession. I wouldn’t even mention such matters if it weren’t to explain how I left that place dazed and bewildered, with a vision of Clemência in my head and the taste of her kiss on my lips. I wandered about for nearly two hours, planning a life without equal; I decided to ask for her hand at the end of the week, and to be married within a month. I planned it down to the very last detail, even composing and embellishing the wedding invitations. I arrived home after midnight, when this whole phantasmagoria flew away before me, just like the changes of scenery in one of those old-fashioned plays at the theater. Can you guess how?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Just as I was taking off my vest, it occurred to me that love can end abruptly; it has happened before, after all. As I removed my boots, I thought of something even worse: it could turn to boredom. I finished my evening toilette, lit a cigarette, and, reclining on the sofa, reflected that domestic routine and harmony could yet save the day. But this was quickly followed by the thought that our inherent dispositions might be incompatible, and what was to be done with two incompatible but inseparable dispositions? Eventually I dismissed these questions, for, after all, ours was a great and violent passion. I imagined myself married, with a beautiful child . . . One? Or two? Six? Eight? Why, there might be eight or even ten of the little tykes, and some of them might be crippled. Some crisis might occur, two crises—lack of money, hardship, illness, or one of those spurious indiscretions that can so disrupt domestic harmony. I considered it from every angle and concluded that I would be better off not marrying. What I cannot describe is my despair; I have no words with which to tell you how I suffered that night . . . Do you mind if I smoke another cigarette?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but rolled the cigarette and lit it. Monsignor Caldas could not help but admire his handsome head, despite the disordered state of his mind; at the same time, he noted that the man spoke politely, and was well mannered, apart from his occasional unsavory outbursts. Who on earth could he be? José Maria carried on with his story, saying that, for six whole days, he stopped visiting Clemência’s house, but could not resist her letters or her tears. After a week, he rushed to her side and confessed everything. She listened to him eagerly, wanting to know what she could do to allay his fears, what proof of love he wanted from her. José Maria’s answer was a question.

  “Are you willing to make a great sacrifice for me?” he asked. Clemência swore that she was. “Well, then, break with everything and everyone, both family and society. Come and live with me, and, after a trial period, we’ll get married.” I can understand your alarm, Reverend. Her eyes filled with tears, but, despite her feeling of humiliation, she agreed to everything. Come on, admit it, I’m a monster.”

  “No . . .”

  “Why not? I am a monster. Clemência came to my house, and you cannot imagine how jubilantly I received her. ‘I’m leaving everything,’ she told me. ‘You are the whole universe to me.’ I kissed her feet; I kissed the heels of her shoes. You cannot imagine my contentment. The following day, I received a letter edged in black; it was news of the death of an uncle of mine in Santa Ana do Livramento, leaving me twenty thousand contos. I was furious. ‘Now I understand,’ I said to Clemência. ‘You sacrificed everything because you’d heard about the inheritance.’ This time Clemência did not cry; she stood up and left. I went after her, ashamed, asking her forgiveness; she refused. This went on for one day, two days, three days, but all in vain. Clemência would not yield, nor even speak to me. Then I told her I would kill myself; I bought a revolver, and went and showed it to her. Here it is—this is the one.”

  Monsignor Caldas turned pale. José Maria showed him the gun, just for a few seconds, then put it back in his pocket and continued:

  “I even managed to pull the trigger. Clemência was terrified; she took it off me and forgave me. We decided to bring forward the wedding date and, of my own accord, I set one condition: I would donate the twenty thousand contos to the National Library. Clemência threw herself into my arms and sealed her approval with a kiss. I donated the twenty thousand contos. You must have read about it in the papers. Three weeks later, we were married. You’re sighing with relief, Reverend, as if we had reached the end of the story. As if! Now we come to the tragic bit. I can shorten some bits and leave others out entirely; I will restrict myself to Clemência. I won’t tell you of other mutilated feelings, which are all mine, of sudden pleasures, plans torn asunder, tattered illusions, nor of that godforsaken bird . . . whoosh . . . whoosh . . . whoosh . . .”

  And, with one leap, José Maria was once again on his feet, flapping his arms and rhythmically moving his body. Monsignor Caldas broke out in a cold sweat. A few seconds later, José Maria stopped, sat down, and continued his story, this time wilder, more frenzied, and clearly even crazier. He told of the state of dread in which he lived, his sorrows and his suspicions. No longer could he bite into a fig as he would once have done; the fear of a worm diminished the pleasure. He did not believe the happy faces of people passing by in the street: worry, hatred, desire, sadness, and other things seemed to lurk in three-quarters of them. He lived in fear that a child of his would be born blind, or deaf and dumb, or consumptive, or a murderer. He could not give a dinner party without becoming depressed at the thought that, as soon as the soup was served, a word from him, a gesture from his wife, or some blunder by the servants might provoke some flippant postprandial jibe, outside in the street, under a lamppost. Experience had given him a horror of being mocked. He confessed to the priest that, in reality, he had never gained anything by this horror; on the contrary, he had lost, because he had even caused blood to be shed . . . He would tell the monsignor all about that too. The previous night he had gone to bed early, and dreamed . . . Who did the priest think he had dreamed of?

  “I have no idea.”

  “I dreamed that the Devil was reading me the Gospel. When he reached the part where Jesus talks about the lilies of the field, the Devil picked some and gave them to me. ‘Take them,’ he said to me, ‘they are the lilies of the Scriptures; as you know, not even Solomon in all his glory could match them. Solomon is wisdom. Do you know what these lilies are, José? They are your twenties.’ I stared at them in wonderment; they were more beautiful than I could imagine. The Devil took them, sniffed them, and told me to sniff them too. I can barely bring myself to tell you; as soon as they reached my nose, I saw a repulsive, reeking reptile come crawling out of them. I screamed and threw the flowers away. Then, roaring with laughter, the Devil said: ‘José Maria, these are your twenties.’ His laughter was almost a cackle—ka, ka, ka, ka, ka . . .”

  José Maria laughed uncontrollably, a laugh that was both shrill and diabolical. Suddenly he stopped. He stood up, saying that, as soon as he opened his eyes, he saw his wife standing before him, distraught and disheveled. Clemência’s eyes were gentle, but he told her that even gentle eyes can wound. She threw herself at his feet. At this point, José Maria’s face was so contorted that the priest, who, by now, was also standing, began to back away, trembling and ashen-faced. “No, you miserable wretch
! No! You won’t get away from me now,” José Maria thundered as he lunged toward the priest. His eyes were bulging, his temples throbbing; the priest stepped back . . . and back . . . Coming up the stairs he heard the sound of rattling swords and pounding feet.

  ADMIRAL’S NIGHT

  DEOLINDO BIG-NOSE (his nickname aboard ship) left the Naval Dockyard and made his way along Rua de Bragança. The clocks were just striking three o’clock in the afternoon. He walked with a spring in his step and, what’s more, he had a happy gleam in his eyes. His corvette had returned from a long training voyage, and Deolindo came ashore just as soon as he could obtain leave. His shipmates said to him, laughing:

  “Ah! Big-Nose! You’re in for a real admiral’s night! Supper, guitar music, and the arms of Genoveva waiting to embrace you . . .”

  Deolindo smiled. That was exactly it: an “admiral’s night,” as they call it, one of those magnificent admiral’s nights, was waiting for him ashore. The passionate affair had begun three months before the corvette left. Her name was Genoveva, a charming dusky-skinned country girl, twenty years of age, clever, with dark, mischievous eyes. They had met at a friend’s house and fallen head over heels for each other, to such an extent that they were on the verge of throwing caution to the winds, with him leaving the navy and the two of them running off to some tiny village in the back of beyond.

  Old Inácia, who lived with Genoveva, dissuaded them, and Deolindo had no choice but to go off on his training voyage. He would be away for eight or ten months. As a guarantee of their feelings for each other, they decided they should take an oath of fidelity.