The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  “What?” I asked, interrupting him, without even having time to feel amazed. “So your owner didn’t sell you to this shop? And it wasn’t poverty or idleness that brought you to light up this cemetery like a ray of sunlight?”

  “I don’t know what ‘sunlight’ or ‘cemetery’ mean. If the other canaries you’ve known used the first of those words, so much the better, because it’s a lovely word, but I think you’re wrong.”

  “Excuse me, are you saying you came here of your own accord, without anyone’s help, unless, of course, that man sitting over there is your owner?”

  “My owner? That man is my servant, he gives me food and water every day and with such regularity that if I had to pay him for his services, it would cost me a pretty penny, but canaries don’t pay their servants. Indeed, since the world belongs to canaries, it would be ridiculous for us to pay for something that already exists in that world.”

  Astonished by these responses, I didn’t know which to find most amazing, his language or his ideas. His words emerged from him as charming trills, but entered my ears as if couched in our human language. I looked around to make sure I was indeed awake; yes, it was the same street, the same sad, damp, gloomy shop. Still hopping back and forth, the canary was waiting for me to speak. I asked him then if he didn’t miss the infinite blue sky . . .

  “My dear fellow,” trilled the canary, “what does ‘infinite blue sky’ mean?”

  “Tell me, then, what you think of this world. What is the world?”

  “The world,” responded the canary with a somewhat professorial air, “the world is a junk shop, with a small, square wicker cage hanging from a nail; the canary is the master of the cage he inhabits and of the surrounding shop. Everything else is illusion and lies.”

  At this point, the old man woke up and came shuffling over to me. He asked if I wanted to buy the canary, and I asked him if he had acquired it in the same way he had acquired the other things he was selling, and he told me that, yes, he had bought it from a barber, along with a set of razors.

  “The razors are in very good condition,” he said.

  “No, I only want the canary.”

  I paid the asking price, took the canary home with me, bought a vast, circular cage made of wood and wire, which I ordered to be painted white and placed on the veranda, from where the bird could see the garden, the fountain, and a scrap of blue sky.

  I intended to make a long study of this phenomenon, but would say nothing to anyone else until I had reached the point where I could dazzle the whole century with my extraordinary discovery. I began to alphabetize the canary’s language, to study its structure, its links with music, the creature’s aesthetic feelings, his ideas and memories. Having completed this initial philological and psychological analysis, I immersed myself in the history of canaries, their origins, their early history, the geology and flora of the Canary Islands, whether he had any knowledge of navigation, and so on. We talked for long hours, with me taking notes, and him waiting, hopping about, and trilling.

  Since I had no other family than my two servants, I had ordered them not to interrupt me, not even with a letter or an urgent telegram or an important visitor. They both knew about my scientific interests and so found these instructions perfectly normal and did not suspect for a moment that the canary and I could understand each other.

  Needless to say, I slept very little, waking two or three times in the night to pace aimlessly, feverishly about. Finally, I would return to my work, rereading, expanding, and amending my thoughts. I had to correct more than one of the canary’s observations, either because I had misunderstood or because he had not expressed himself clearly enough. His definition of the world was one such example. Three weeks after he came to live in my house, I asked him to repeat his definition of the world.

  “The world,” he said, “is a fair-sized garden with a fountain in the middle, a few flowers and shrubs, a little grass, clear air and a scrap of blue up above; the canary, who is the master of this world, lives in a vast white circular cage, from which he views all these things. Everything else is illusion and lies.”

  The language he used underwent a few changes, too, and I realized that certain of my conclusions, which I had thought quite straightforward, were, in fact, positively rash. I could not yet write the article I intended to send to the National Museum, to the Historical Institute, and to various German universities, not because I lacked material, but because I still needed to compile and confirm all these observations. Latterly, I did not even leave the house or answer letters and I had no time for friends or relatives. I was pure canary. Each morning, one of the servants was tasked with cleaning the cage and giving the canary his food and water. The canary said nothing to him, as if he knew that the servant lacked any scientific training. Besides, the servant carried out this task in a very summary fashion, for he was not a lover of birds. One Saturday, I woke up feeling ill, my head and back aching. The doctor ordered complete rest; I had been overtaxing my brain and must neither read nor think; I must not even attempt to find out what was going on in the city and the world. I remained like this for five days, and on the sixth, I left my bed, only to discover that the canary had escaped while the servant was cleaning out its cage. My first impulse was to strangle my servant; overcome with rage, I slumped into a chair, my head spinning, unable to speak. The servant defended himself, swearing that he had taken every possible care, but that the bird had cunningly escaped . . .

  “Didn’t you look for him?”

  “We did, sir. At first he flew up onto the roof, and I went after him, then he flew over to a tree and hid. I’ve been asking everywhere, the neighbors, the local farmers, but no one has seen him.”

  You can imagine my anguish. Fortunately, though, I had by then recovered from my exhausted state and, after only a few hours, I was able to go out onto the veranda and into the garden. Not a sign of the canary. I made inquiries, I went here, there, and everywhere, I advertised, but all in vain. I had already compiled my notes for the article, however truncated and incomplete, when I happened to visit a friend, who lived in one of the largest and most beautiful mansions in the area. We went for a stroll in the garden before supper, when I heard a voice trill out this question:

  “Hello, Senhor Macedo, where did you disappear to?”

  It was the canary. He was perched on the branch of a tree. You can imagine my feelings and what I said to him. My friend thought I had gone mad, but what did I care what my friends thought? I addressed the canary tenderly, begging him to come back and resume our conversation, in our world composed of garden, fountain, veranda, and white circular cage . . .

  “What garden? What fountain?”

  “The world, my dear friend.”

  “What world? I see you have lost none of your bad professorial habits. The world,” he concluded solemnly, “is an infinite blue space, with the sun up above.”

  I indignantly retorted that, if he was to be believed, the world was everything and anything; it had even been a junk shop . . .

  “A junk shop?” he trilled mockingly. “Do such things exist?

  XERXES’S TEARS

  LET US SUPPOSE (because everything is mere supposition) that before Friar Lawrence married Juliet and Romeo, they had the following curious conversation:

  JULIET: One person?

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: Yes, child, and as soon as I have made one person of the two of you, no power on earth can separate you. Come, now, let us hasten to the altar, the candles are being lit. (They leave the cell and walk down the passageway.)

  ROMEO: Why do we need candles? Give us your blessing here. (He stops beside a window.) Why do we need an altar and candles? The sky is our altar, and it won’t be long before the angels light the eternal stars, although the sky is an altar even without stars. Besides, the church is open to all, and someone might see us. Come, give us your blessing here.

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: No, let us go into the church. It won’t be long before everything is ready. But you
must keep your head bowed, child, so that you will not be seen by any prying eyes, should there be any.

  ROMEO: A vain hope, for there is not in the whole of Verona a figure to equal that of my lovely Juliet; no other lady could ever be mistaken for her. What’s wrong with this spot here? The altar is no better than the sky.

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: But it is more effective.

  ROMEO: How so?

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: Everything blessed at the altar endures. The candles you will see burning there will sputter out long before the bride and groom and the priest who is about to unite them in matrimony; I have seen infinite numbers of candles die; but the stars . . .

  ROMEO: What about them? They will still burn; indeed, they were only lit to make the heavens as beautiful as the Earth. Yes, my divine Juliet, the Milky Way is like the luminous dust of your thoughts; all those distant, lofty jewels and lights are here embodied in your person, because the placid moon is merely an imitation of your benevolence, and Venus, when it shines, is like the fire of your imagination. Marry us here and now, Father. What other formality need you ask of us? We need no outward formality, nor anyone’s consent. Only love and desire. We are separated by the hatred of others, but united by our love.

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: Forever.

  JULIET: Yes, unite us—forever. What more do we need? Your hand will stop the hours. In vain will the sun pass from one sky to another, in vain will it come and go, for it will not take with it the time that lies at our feet like a tame tiger. Friend and father, repeat those lovely words.

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: Forever.

  JULIET: Forever! Eternal love! Eternal life! I swear to you that I know no other language than that. I swear to you that I do not even understand my own mother’s language.

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: It may well be that your mother didn’t understand her mother’s language, either. Life is a Babel, child, and each of us is a nation.

  ROMEO: Not in our case, Father. She and I are two provinces of the same language, which we intermingle in order to say the same prayers, with the same alphabet and but one meaning. Nor is there any other meaning worth having on Earth. Now, who taught us that divine language, neither of us knows; perhaps it was a star. Look, maybe it was that star up there, the first to appear in the sky tonight.

  JULIET: What celestial hand lit that star? Perhaps the Archangel Raphael’s or yours, beloved Romeo. O magnificent star, will you be the star of my life, you, who mark the moment of my marriage? What is that star called, Father?

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: I know nothing of astronomy, my child.

  JULIET: You must know. You know both the divine and the human languages, the very herbs that grow, those that kill and those that cure. Tell me, tell me . . .

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: Ah, eternal Eve!

  JULIET: Tell me the name of the celestial torch that will light my nuptials, and marry us here and now. The stars are far superior to any earthly torches.

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: No, they’re not. You ask me what that star is called. I don’t know. My astronomy is not like that of other men. (After a pause for thought.) I know what the winds told me, though, the winds that blow from here and there, from above and below, from one age to another, and they know a great deal, because they see everything. They remain united when dispersed, and find constancy in change.

  ROMEO: And what did the winds tell you?

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: Harsh things. Herodotus describes how, one day, Xerxes wept, but that is all he says. The winds told me the rest, because they were standing next to Xerxes, and caught every word . . . Listen, they’ve begun to grow agitated; they must have heard us speaking and are murmuring . . . Howl, friendly winds, howl as you did in your young days at Thermopylae.

  ROMEO: But what did they tell you? Quick, tell us.

  JULIET: No, Father, speak when you feel ready. We will wait for you.

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: Gentle creature. Learn from her, my boy, learn to tolerate the excesses of an old lunatic. What did they tell me? It would be best not to repeat it, but if you insist on me marrying you here, by the light of the stars, I will tell you the origin of the one star that appears to rule over all the others. Come, we still have time, the altar awaits . . . No? How stubborn you are. I will tell you, then, what the winds told me, the winds blowing around Xerxes when he came to destroy Hellas with his countless troops. The troops marched ahead of him, under the lash, because that crude man was particularly fond of the lash and used it often, without hesitation and without remorse. Even the sea, when it dared to destroy the bridge he had ordered to be built, received three hundred lashes. This was perhaps fair punishment, but, wishing to be not only fair but brutal, Xerxes ordered the beheading of all those who had built the bridge and failed to make it indestructible. The whip and the sword; beatings and blood.

  JULIET: Brutal indeed!

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: Brutal, but strong. Strength has its value, and the proof is that the sea ended up accepting the yoke imposed on it by the great Persian. Now, one day, on the banks of the Hellespont, curious to see the troops he had gathered there, on sea and land, Xerxes climbed a sacred hill, from which he could enjoy a clear view in all directions. Imagine how proud he felt. He saw countless people, the sweetest milk drawn from the Asian cow, hundreds of thousands alongside hundreds of thousands more, different squadrons and different peoples, diverse colors and diverse clothes, all mixed up together, arrow and sword, crown and helmet, goat’s hair, horse’s hair, panther skin, an infinite clamor of things and men. He saw and he laughed; he could sense victory. What other power could possibly oppose him? He felt invincible. And he stood there laughing and looking with greedy, happy eyes, a bridegroom’s eyes, like yours, my young friend . . .

  ROMEO: There’s no comparison. Even the greatest despot in the universe is a miserable slave if he is not the master of the most beautiful eyes in Verona. And the proof is that, despite all his power, he wept.

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: Yes, he did weep, you’re right, the moment he stopped laughing. His face suddenly clouded over, and great, irrepressible tears poured forth. An uncle of the warrior standing nearby was shocked and asked him the reason for his tears; Xerxes replied sadly that he was crying at the thought that, in a hundred years’ time, not one of those thousands and thousands of men at his command would exist. That is as far as Herodotus goes, but listen now to the winds. The winds were astonished. They were asking each other if that proud, cruel man had ever cried before in his life and had concluded that this was impossible, since he knew nothing of compassion, only injustice and cruelty. And it was compassion that was filling the tyrant’s tears and filling his throat with sobs. They roared their amazement, then gathered up Xerxes’s tears. What would you have done with them?

  ROMEO: I would have dried them so as not to dishonor human pity.

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: They chose not to do that; instead, they gathered up all his tears and flew off into space, calling out: Look, look! Here they are, the first diamonds from the barbarian’s soul! The entire firmament was in uproar; for a moment, everything stopped. Not a single star wanted to believe the winds. Tears from Xerxes? Impossible! Such a plant could never grow in such stony ground. But there they were for all to see; the winds showed them around, telling the curious story about the laughter that had provided the shell for those pearls, those words; then the constellations had no choice but to believe that hardhearted Xerxes had indeed wept. The planets gazed for a long time on those unlikely tears; there was no denying that they contained both the bitterness of pain and the salt tang of melancholy. And when they considered that the heart that had shed those tears was particularly fond of the lash, they cast a sideways glance at the Earth, as if wondering at such contradictions. One of them told the winds to return the tears to the barbarian, so that he could drink them, but the winds refused and paused to deliberate, for it is not only men who disagree with each other.

  JULIET: You mean the winds do too?

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: They do. The north wind wanted to turn the tears into violent, destruc
tive storms, like the man who had shed them; but the other winds could not accept this idea. Storms always pass, and they wanted something lasting, a river, for example, or a new sea. Unable to reach an agreement, they went to talk to the sun and the moon. You know the moon, don’t you, child?

  ROMEO: She herself is the moon; as I said just a while ago, good father, both she and the moon are the serene image of compassion and love.

  JULIET: No, don’t believe anything he says, Father; the moon is my rival, the rival who lights from afar the handsome face of gallant Romeo, lending him an opalescent glow when he walks down the street . . .

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: You are both right. The moon and Juliet could be the same person, which is why they both love the same man. But if you are the moon, my child, you should know what she said to the winds.

  JULIET: I’ve no idea.

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: The winds went to see her and asked what they should do with Xerxes’s tears, and her response was the most compassionate response you can imagine. Let us crystallize these tears, said the moon, and make of them a star that will shine down all the centuries with the light of compassion, a place where all those who left the Earth will reside, finding there the perpetuity that eluded them in life.

  JULIET: Yes, I would say the same thing. (Looking out of the window.) Ah, eternal light, cradle of renewal, world of continuing, infinite love, we were just hearing your lovely story.

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: No, no, no.

  JULIET: No?

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: No, because the winds also went to talk to the sun, and, while you may know the moon, my child, you do not know the sun. The winds took Xerxes’s tears to the sun, explained their origin, and told him what the moon had advised, and they spoke of how beautiful that special new star would be. The sun listened to them and replied, saying, yes, they should, indeed, crystallize the tears and turn them into a star, but not the kind of star the moon had asked for, nor one with the same purpose. It must be bright and eternal, he said, but if you want compassion, there’s quite enough of that in the moon and her sickly sweet poetry. No, that star made of tears prompted by a proud man’s realization of the brevity of life will hang in the sky as the star of irony, where it will shine down on all the multitudes passing by, believing themselves to be immortal, and on anything built in defiance of time. Wherever weddings sing a hymn to eternity, it will send down one of its lightning bolts, one of Xerxes’s tears, to scribble a message of extinction—instant, total, and irremissible. Every epiphany will receive that same sarcastic note. I don’t want melancholy—the faded roses of the moon and her ilk—I want irony, uttered by hard, cold, sardonic lips . . .