Xavier lasted one more week. On his second visit, Evaristo was present at the invalid’s death, and could not detach himself from the inevitable emotions of the moment, the place, and the circumstances. Mariana, her eyes hollow from weeping and watching, sat at the bedside, her hair disheveled. When, after a long, drawn-out death agony, Xavier finally departed this life, the weeping of the gathered family and friends could scarcely be heard; it was Mariana’s piercing cry that caught everyone’s attention, followed by her fainting and falling to the floor. She lay unconscious for several minutes. When she came to, she rushed over to her husband’s dead body, embracing him, sobbing uncontrollably, calling him by the most loving and tender names. They had not yet closed the corpse’s eyes, and this provoked a painful, tragic scene, for she, covering his eyes with kisses, became convinced that he was still alive and cried out that he had been saved. However hard they tried to pull her away, she would not let go and pushed them off, screaming that they were trying to take her husband away from her. She fainted again and was quickly carried to another room.
When the funeral procession left the house the following day, Mariana was not present, despite insisting on saying her final farewell; her strength was no longer the equal of her desires. Evaristo accompanied the cortege. As he followed the hearse, he could hardly believe where he was and what he was doing. At the cemetery, he spoke to one of Xavier’s relatives, offering him his deepest condolences.
“They clearly loved each other very much,” he concluded.
“Oh, indeed,” said the relative. “They married for love, you know; I wasn’t at the wedding because I only came to live in Rio de Janeiro some years later, in 1874. Nevertheless, I found them to be as inseparable as newlyweds, and I have followed their lives together ever since. They lived for each other, and, frankly, I don’t know if she’ll be long for this world.”
“1874,” thought Evaristo. “Two years later.”
Mariana did not attend the seventh-day mass; a relative—the same one he had met in the cemetery—represented her on that mournful occasion. Evaristo learned from him that the widow was not in a fit state to risk attending the commemoration of such a tragedy. He let several days pass and went to pay a visit of condolence, but, having given his card, he was told she was not receiving anyone. He then went to São Paulo, returned five or six weeks later, and prepared to embark for Europe. Before leaving, he thought once again about visiting Mariana—not so much for reasons of simple courtesy, but so as to take away with him a final image, albeit impaired, of their four-year passion.
She was not at home. He turned to leave, angry and annoyed with himself, considering his visit impertinent and in poor taste. A short distance from the house he noticed coming out of the Espírito Santo Church a woman in mourning, who looked like Mariana. It was Mariana. She was on foot, and as she passed by his carriage she looked up at him, pretended not to recognize him, and carried on walking, leaving Evaristo’s greeting unanswered. Even at this point, he wanted to stop the carriage and say goodbye to her, right there in the street, just one minute, just a few words. However, he hesitated for too long and, by the time his carriage stopped, he had already passed the church, and Mariana was, by then, some distance away. He nevertheless stepped down from the carriage and made his way back along the street. However, whether out of respect or resentment, he changed his mind, climbed back into the carriage, and left.
“Three times she was sincere,” he concluded, after several minutes of reflection.
Within a month he was back in Paris. He had not forgotten his friend’s new play, whose opening night at the Odéon he had promised to attend. He made some inquiries; it had been a resounding flop.
“Well, that’s theater for you,” said Evaristo to the playwright, in an attempt to console him. “Some plays fail. Others run and run.”
A SCHOOL TALE
THE SCHOOL WAS on Rua do Costa, a little two-story building with a wooden fence. The year was 1840. On that Monday in May, I hung around for a few moments on Rua da Princesa pondering where I would go and play that morning. I couldn’t decide between the São Diogo hill and the Campo de Sant’Ana, which, back then, was not the park for fine gentlemen we know today, but a more or less infinite expanse of countryside, dotted with washerwomen, patches of grass, and untethered donkeys. Hill or field? That was the question. Suddenly I told myself I’d be better off going to school. And so I went. Here’s why.
I had skipped class twice the previous week, and when I was found out, I received my just reward from my father, who gave me a good thrashing with a big quince stick. The beating hurt for quite some time. He was a former employee at the War Arsenal, and was strict and intolerant. He dreamed of a successful business career for me, and was keen that I should master the rudiments of commerce, reading, writing, and arithmetic, in order to get me started somewhere as a cashier. He was always reeling off the names of successful businessmen who had started behind the counter. So it was the recollection of that most recent punishment that carried me to school that morning. I was not a virtuous child.
I crept up the stairs so that the schoolmaster wouldn’t hear me, and arrived just in time; he entered the classroom three or four minutes later. He padded softly in as usual, wearing leather slippers, a faded linen jacket, ill-fitting white trousers, and a wide, drooping collar. His name was Policarpo and he was around fifty years of age, perhaps more. He sat down, took his snuffbox and red handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket and placed them in a drawer, then cast his eyes around the room. The boys, who had stood up when he entered, had sat down again. Everything was in order; work could begin.
“I need to speak to you, Pilar,” the schoolmaster’s son whispered to me.
He was called Raimundo, this little fellow, and although he studied hard, he was rather dim and slow-witted. It would take Raimundo two hours to grasp what others could master in thirty or fifty minutes; he overcame with time what his brain could not at first achieve. To this was added a great fear of his father. A delicate child with a pale, sickly face, he was rarely cheerful. He arrived at school after his father and left before him. His father was even stricter with him than he was with us.
“What do you want?”
“Later,” he replied, his voice trembling.
The writing lesson began. I hate to say that I was among the more advanced pupils in the school, but I was. And although an understandable and praiseworthy fastidiousness on my part makes me hesitate to say that I was also one of the most intelligent, I cannot deny it. It should be noted that I was neither pale nor sickly; I had a good complexion and muscles of iron. In the writing lesson, for example, I would always finish before everyone else, and would while away the time drawing noses either on a piece of paper or on the desk, an entirely foolish, ignoble occupation, but innocent enough nevertheless. That day was the same as any other; no sooner had I finished than I began to draw the schoolmaster’s nose, in five or six different poses, of which I remember the interrogative, the admirative, the dubitative, and the cogitative. I didn’t call them by these names, poor student of rudimentary letters that I was, but I instinctively gave them those expressions. One by one, the other pupils finished, and there was nothing for it but for me to finish, too, hand in my writing exercise, and return to my place.
If truth be told, I was sorry I had come. Now that I was trapped there, I was aching to escape, and once again I thought of the field, the hill, and the other young rascals, Chico Telha, Américo, and Carlos das Escadinhas, the very flower of the neighborhood and of the human race itself. To compound my despair, through the schoolroom window, floating in the bright blue sky high above the Livramento hill, I could see a magnificent paper kite, long and broad, dancing in the breeze on a long string. And there was I sitting in the classroom, with my reading book and my grammar book on my knees.
“I was a fool to come to school today,” I said to Raimundo.
“Don’t say that,” he whispered back.
I looked
at him; he seemed even paler than before. Then I remembered that he wanted to ask me something, and I asked him what it was. Again Raimundo trembled and hurriedly told me to wait; it was a private matter.
“Pilar . . .” he whispered a few minutes later.
“What?”
“You . . .”
“You, what?”
He glanced up at his father, then at some of the other boys. One of them, Curvelo, stared back at him suspiciously, and, indicating this with a nod of his head, Raimundo asked me to wait a few more minutes. I confess that, by this point, I was burning with curiosity. I looked at Curvelo and saw that he did seem to be watching us; it might have been mere curiosity, natural inquisitiveness, but it might also have been a sign that there was something between them. Curvelo was a mischievous devil. At eleven he was the oldest in the class.
What on earth did Raimundo want from me? I was getting increasingly restless, fidgeting and whispering insistently to Raimundo that he should tell me what it was all about, and that no one was watching either of us. Or if he couldn’t tell me now, then maybe this afternoon—
“No, not this afternoon,” he interrupted, “it can’t be this afternoon.”
“Well, then, why not now?”
“Papa is watching.”
The schoolmaster was, indeed, staring at us. Since he was stricter with his own son, he often looked in his direction, the better to keep him under his thumb. But we could play at that game too; we stuck our noses in our books and carried on reading. Finally, he wearied of watching us and picked up one of three or four newspapers, which he proceeded to read slowly, chewing over the thoughts and passions therein. Don’t forget that this was the end of the Regency, and feelings were running high. Policarpo doubtless had some political affiliation, although I was never able to confirm what it was. His worst affiliation, from our point of view, was with the strap. There it hung, to the right of the window, with its five devilish eyes. He needed only to raise his hand, unhook the fiendish strap, and brandish it with his customary and not inconsiderable vigor. It was conceivable, however, that his interest in politics would so engage him that we would be spared any punishment. On that particular day, at any rate, he seemed to be reading the newspapers with particular relish; he raised his eyes from time to time, or took a pinch of snuff, but quickly returned to the papers, devouring them avidly.
After some time—ten or twelve minutes—Raimundo put his hand in his trouser pocket and looked at me.
“Can you guess what I’ve got in here?”
“No.”
“A silver coin Mama gave me.”
“Today?”
“No, the other day, on my birthday.”
“Real silver?”
“Yes, real.”
He slowly pulled it out and showed it to me from a distance. It was a coin from the days of the king, twelve vinténs or two tostões, I can’t quite remember which, but it was a coin nonetheless, and a coin that made my heart beat faster. Raimundo turned his insipid gaze on me, then asked if I wanted it. I said he must be joking, but he swore he wasn’t.
“But then what would you do without it?”
“Mama will get me another one. She has lots that Grandpapa left her, in a little chest; some of them are gold. Would you like this one?”
In reply, and after a quick glance at the schoolmaster’s desk, I surreptitiously held out my hand. Raimundo immediately withdrew his hand, smiling feebly. Then he proposed a deal, an exchange of services: he would give me the coin if I would explain to him a bit of our syntax lesson. He couldn’t remember anything from the book, and he was afraid of asking his father. He concluded his proposal by rubbing the coin on his knee.
I had a very strange feeling. Not that I possessed anything like a grown-up notion of virtue; nor did I have any difficulty in indulging in childish lies. We both knew how to deceive the schoolmaster. The novelty lay in the terms of the proposal, in that exchange of lessons for money, a straightforward, honest transaction—tit for tat; and that was what caused that strange feeling. I sat staring at him, speechless.
As you can imagine, the lesson was a difficult one, and Raimundo, having failed to learn it, was resorting to what seemed to him a useful means of escaping punishment by his father. If he had asked me as a favor, I would have helped him just the same, as I had on previous occasions, but it seems it was the memory of such previous occasions, the fear that I might be reluctant or unwilling to help, or else not explain things very well—and it may even be that on some occasions I had told him the wrong answer—it seems that this was the motivation behind his proposal. The poor devil was desperate for me to do him a favor, but he wanted to ensure its efficacy, and so he resorted to the coin his mother had given him and which he kept like some holy relic or toy; he took it out again and rubbed it up and down on his knee, showing me, tempting me . . . It really was very pretty, slender, and bright, especially to my eyes, for if I carried any coins at all in my pocket, they were only ever of the thick, ugly, green-tinged copper variety.
I didn’t want to take it, but it was a hard thing to refuse. I looked up at the schoolmaster, who was still reading with such intense interest that the snuff dripped from his nose. “Come on, take it,” the son whispered to me. And the little silver coin sparkled between his fingers like a diamond. If the schoolmaster didn’t notice, what possible harm could there be? And he would see nothing, for he had his nose buried in his newspapers, which he continued to read with fire and indignation.
“Go on, take it . . .”
I again glanced around the schoolroom, and saw that Curvelo was looking at us; I told Raimundo to wait. It seemed to me that Curvelo was watching, and so I pretended not to notice; but after a few seconds, I shot him another glance and—ah, how our desires delude us!—I saw he had turned away. My courage returned.
“Give it here.”
Raimundo furtively passed me the coin; with an excitement I can barely describe I put it in my trouser pocket. There it was, pressed against my leg, all mine. It only remained for me to perform my side of the bargain by teaching him the lesson, and I lost no time at all in doing so. I didn’t even give him the wrong answers, at least not intentionally; I passed them to him on a scrap of paper, which he very cautiously took from me and gave his full attention. You could sense that he was expending five or six times the effort needed to learn something so simple, but it didn’t particularly matter, just as long as he escaped punishment.
Suddenly I looked over at Curvelo and jumped; he was looking straight at us, with a malicious grin on his face. I pretended not to have seen this, but when I turned back toward him a few moments later, I saw that he was still looking, and had the same malicious air about him, in addition to which he was now fidgeting impatiently in his seat. I smiled at him, but he did not smile back; on the contrary, he frowned, which gave him a distinctly menacing appearance. My heart was racing.
“We need to be very careful,” I said to Raimundo.
“Just explain this bit here,” he whispered.
I gestured to him to shut up, but he insisted, and the coin in my pocket reminded me of the contract between us. I gave him the answer, as surreptitiously as I could; then I turned to look at Curvelo, who was fidgeting even more, and the smile on his face, which had been wicked enough before, was now even more so. It goes without saying that I was desperate for the lesson to finish, but the hands on the clock seemed to be stuck and the schoolmaster wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to anything around him; he was still reading the newspapers, article by article, punctuating them with exclamations, shrugs, and one or two little taps on the table. And there outside, in the blue sky, above the hill, the same eternal kite swooped and swerved, as if calling me to go and join it. I imagined myself sitting there with my books and my slate beneath the mango tree, the little silver coin in my trouser pocket; I wouldn’t give it to anyone, not for anything in the world; I would keep it at home, telling my mother I’d found it in the street. I felt for it
in my pocket, just to make sure it didn’t get away, running my fingers over its surface, almost reading the inscription by touch, and desperately wanting to peek at it.
“Hey! Pilar!” shouted the schoolmaster, with a voice of thunder.
I started as if woken from a dream and jumped to my feet. I found the schoolmaster scowling at me, the newspapers thrown to one side. Standing next to his desk was Curvelo. He seemed to have understood exactly what was going on.
“Come here,” barked the schoolmaster.
I went up and stood before him. He drilled into my mind with his pointy little eyes, then summoned his son. The whole class had stopped work; nobody was reading, nobody moved. I didn’t take my eyes off the schoolmaster, but I could sense everyone’s curiosity and fear.
“So, you take money for teaching the other boys their lessons, do you, Pilar?”
“I . . .”
“Give me the coin that your chum over there gave you!” he shouted.
I hesitated, but I couldn’t refuse. I was still trembling uncontrollably. Policarpo again bawled at me to give him the coin, and I had no choice; I reached into my pocket, slowly drew out the coin, and handed it over. He examined it carefully, snorting with rage; then he stretched out his arm and hurled it into the street. He laid into us with a tirade of abuse, about how both I and his son had committed a despicable, unworthy, vile, base act, and that we were to be punished both for our own sakes and to set an example. At this, he reached out and took the strap down from its hook.
The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis Page 85