The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis by Machado De Assis
Now and then, Dona Beatriz would go to the foot of the stairs and shout:
“Girls, come down and have your breakfast!”
It seems, though, that the girls were in no hurry, because they only obeyed their mother’s summons when it was past nine o’clock, and she had already called up to them eight times and was even about to climb the stairs to their bedroom—quite a sacrifice for such a plump lady.
The Lemos girls were two dark-haired beauties. One was about twenty, the other seventeen; both were tall and slightly overdressed. The older girl looked somewhat pale, while the other, pink-cheeked and cheerful, came down the stairs singing a popular ballad of the time. Of the two, it would seem that she was the happier one, but this was not the case; the happier sister was the older girl, who, that very day, was to tie the knot with young Luís Duarte, after a long and persistent courtship. She was pale because she had barely slept, even though she had never before suffered from insomnia, but then some illnesses do just come and go.
The two girls came downstairs, received their mother’s blessing as well as a brief telling-off, then went into the parlor to talk to their father. José Lemos, who had just changed the position of the pictures for the seventh time, asked his daughters whether the engraving of Mary Stuart would be better on this side of the sofa or on the other. The girls said it would be best left where it was, and this verdict put an end to all José Lemos’s doubts, and, deeming his work to be done, he went off to have his breakfast.
Also seated at the breakfast table, along with José Lemos, Dona Beatriz, Carlota (the bride), and Luísa, were Rodrigo Lemos and little Antonico, the Lemoses’ two sons. Rodrigo was eighteen and Antonico six; Antonico was a miniature version of Rodrigo, with whom he shared another brotherly trait, that of extreme idleness. From eight o’clock in the morning on, Rodrigo was to be found doing one of two things: either reading the advertisements in the newspaper or going into the kitchen to find out when breakfast would be served. As for Antonico, he, as usual, had eaten a large plate of porridge at six o’clock, and then slept peacefully until the nursemaid called him.
Breakfast passed without incident. José Lemos preferred not to talk while he was eating; Rodrigo recounted the plot of the play he had seen the previous night at the Ginásio; and that was the sole topic of conversation. When breakfast was over, Rodrigo got up to smoke a cigarette, and José Lemos leaned his elbows on the table, peered out at the rather ominous sky over toward Tijuca, and asked if it looked as if rain were likely.
Antonico was just about to leave the table, having first asked permission, when his mother issued this warning:
“Now, Antonico, at supper, I don’t want you to do what you always do when there are strangers here.”
“What’s that?” asked José Lemos.
“He gets all embarrassed and sticks his finger up his nose. Only silly boys do that, and I don’t like it.”
Deeply humiliated, Antonico ran into the parlor in floods of tears, Dona Beatriz hurried after her youngest child to comfort him, and everyone else left the table.
José Lemos checked with his wife that no one had been omitted from the guest list, and, having established that everyone who should have been invited was there, he prepared to go out. He was immediately given various errands: to ask the hairdresser to come early, to buy gloves for his wife and his daughters, to make sure the carriages were ready, to order ice cream and wines, and certain other tasks in which he could have been helped by young Rodrigo, had that namesake of El Cid not gone upstairs to sleep off breakfast.
No sooner had the soles of José Lemos’s shoes touched the cobbled street outside than Dona Beatriz instructed her daughter Carlota to follow her into the parlor, where she immediately addressed her as follows:
“Today, my dear, your life as a single woman will end, and tomorrow, married life will begin. Having undergone the same transformation myself, I know from personal experience that being married brings with it many heavy responsibilities. Obviously, every woman must learn for herself, but I am following the example of your grandmother, who, on the eve of my marriage to your father, set out in clear and simple language what it means to be married and the great responsibility involved in this new role . . .”
Dona Beatriz stopped speaking, and Carlota, attributing her mother’s silence to a desire for some response, said nothing, but planted a fond, filial kiss on her mother’s cheek.
Had Luís Duarte’s bride peered through the keyhole of her father’s study only three days before, she would have realized that Dona Beatriz was reciting a speech composed by José Lemos, and that her silence was merely a temporary memory lapse.
It would have been far better had Dona Beatriz, like other mothers, offered advice drawn from her own heart and experience. Maternal love is the best rhetoric in the world, but Senhor José Lemos, who, ever since he was a young man, had preserved a certain literary bent, felt that, on such a solemn occasion, it would be wrong to run the risk of his better half making any grammatical errors.
Dona Beatriz resumed her speech, which was not that long, and concluded by asking if Carlota really did love her fiancé and was not, as did occasionally happen, getting married out of pique. Carlota replied that she loved her fiancé as dearly as she loved her parents, and the mother then kissed her daughter with a tenderness not provided for in José Lemos’s prose.
At about two o’clock in the afternoon, José Lemos returned, dripping with sweat, but feeling very pleased with himself, because, as well as carrying out all his wife’s errands as regards carriages, hairdressers, etc., he had managed to persuade Lieutenant Porfírio to join them for supper, something which, up until then, had been by no means certain.
Lieutenant Porfírio was what you might call an after-dinner speaker, possessing, as he did, the necessary confidence, fluency, and wit for the task. These fine gifts brought Lieutenant Porfírio certain benefits: he rarely dined at home on Sundays or on public holidays. You invited Lieutenant Porfírio on the tacit understanding that he would make a speech, just as you would expect a guest who was also a musician to play something. Lieutenant Porfírio came between dessert and coffee, and he did not come cheap, either; for if he was a good speaker, he was an even better trencherman. All things considered, his speech was amply paid for by the supper.
In the three days prior to the wedding, there had been much debate about whether the supper should precede the ceremony or vice versa. The bride’s father felt that the ceremony should come after supper, and he was supported in this by young Rodrigo, who, with a wisdom worthy of a statesman, realized that, otherwise, supper would be very late. Dona Beatriz, however, thought it odd to go to church on a full stomach. This view had no theological or disciplinary basis, but Dona Beatriz had her own particular views on church matters, and she prevailed.
At around four o’clock, the guests began to arrive.
The first were the Vilela family, comprising Justiniano Vilela, a retired civil servant, Dona Margarida, his wife, and Dona Augusta, their niece.
Justiniano Vilela’s head—if a breadfruit wearing a very elaborate cravat can be called a head—was an example of nature’s prodigality when it came to making big heads. Some people declared, though, that his talent could not compete in size, even though a rumor to the contrary had been doing the rounds for some time. I don’t know what talent those people were talking about, and the word can have various meanings, but Justiniano Vilela had certainly shown great talent in his choice of wife, who, in José Lemos’s opinion, still merited ten minutes of anyone’s attention, even though she was well into her forty-sixth year.
Justiniano Vilela was dressed as one usually does for such gatherings, and the only truly noteworthy thing about him were his English lace-up shoes, and since he had a horror of overly long trousers, he revealed a pair of fine, immaculate, brilliant white socks whenever he sat down.
As well as his pension, Justiniano owned a house and two houseboys, and he lived quite well on that. He disliked
Other guests began arriving, but these were few in number, because only close friends and family would be attending the ceremony and the supper.
At half-past four, Carlota’s godparents arrived, Dr. Valença and his widowed sister, Dona Virgínia. José Lemos rushed to embrace Dr. Valença, who, being a very formal, ceremonious fellow, gently pushed his friend away, whispering that, on such a day, gravity was of the essence. Then, with a serenity of which only he was capable, Dr. Valença immediately went to greet the mistress of the house and the other ladies.
He was a man of about fifty, neither fat nor thin, but endowed with a broad chest and an equally broad abdomen, which lent a still greater gravity to his face and manners. The abdomen is the most positive expression of human gravity; a thin man cannot help but make rapid movements, whereas to be seriously grave, one’s movements need to be slow and measured. A truly grave man should take at least two minutes to take out a handkerchief and blow his nose. Dr. Valença took three minutes when he had a heavy cold and four when he was well. He really was the gravest of men.
I stress this because it is the best possible proof of Dr. Valença’s intelligence. As soon as he had completed his law degree, he realized that the one quality guaranteed to earn other people’s respect was gravity; and on inquiring into the nature of gravity, it seemed to him that it had nothing to do with profound thoughts or seriousness of mind, but with a certain “mystery of the body,” as La Rochefoucauld calls it, and, the reader will add, mystery is like the flag carried by neutral forces in time of war, ensuring that no one dares to examine the cargo it conceals.
Anyone discovering so much as a wrinkle in Dr. Valença’s tailcoat could feel well pleased with himself. His vest had only three buttons and formed a kind of heart-shaped opening from chest to neck. An elegant collapsible top hat completed Dr. Valença’s toilette. He was not handsome in the effeminate sense that some apply to male beauty, but there was a certain correctness about the lines of his face, which was covered with a veil of serenity that suited him perfectly.
Once Dr. Valença and his sister had arrived, José Lemos asked after the bridegroom, but Dr. Valença said he hadn’t seen him. It was five o’clock by then. The guests, who assumed they had arrived too late for the ceremony, were unpleasantly surprised by this delay, and Justiniano Vilela whispered to his wife that he regretted not having had something to eat beforehand. This was precisely what young Rodrigo Lemos was doing, having realized that supper would not start until seven.
Dr. Valença’s sister—of whom I said but little before because she was one of the most insignificant creatures ever produced by the race of Eve—immediately wanted to go and see the bride, and Dona Beatriz went with her, leaving her husband free to strike up a conversation with Senhor Vilela’s very attractive wife.
“Bridegrooms today do seem to take their time,” Justiniano remarked philosophically. “When I got married, I was the first to arrive at the bride’s house.”
To this comment—which was entirely the child of Vilela’s implacable stomach—Dr. Valença replied:
“I can perfectly understand the delay and the nervousness one must feel in the presence of one’s bride.”
Everyone smiled at this defense of the absent groom, and the conversation grew more animated.
At the very moment when Vilela was discussing with Dr. Valença the advantages of the old days over the present, and the young women were talking about the latest fashions, the bride entered the room, escorted by her mother and godmother, with, bringing up the rear, the very attractive Luísa, accompanied by her little brother, Antonico.
It would be both inexact of me and in poor taste if I, as narrator, were not to mention that an admiring murmur filled the room.
Carlota was a truly dazzling sight in her white dress, her garland of orange blossom, her thinnest of thin veils, and wearing no other jewels but her dark eyes, bright as diamonds of the first water.
José Lemos broke off his conversation with Justiniano’s wife and gazed at his daughter. The bride was introduced to the guests and led over to the sofa, where she sat down between her godparents. Balancing his top hat on his knee and steadying it with one expensively gloved hand, Dr. Valença showered his goddaughter with praise, which made the young woman simultaneously blush and smile—an amiable alliance between vanity and modesty.
Steps were heard on the stairs, and José Lemos was preparing himself for the arrival of his future son-in-law, when the Valadares brothers appeared at the door.
Of the two brothers, the oldest, called Calisto, had a sallow complexion, an aquiline nose, brown hair, and round eyes. The younger brother, called Eduardo, only differed from his brother in having a distinctly ruddier complexion. They were both employed by the same company and were in the full bloom of middle age. There was another distinguishing feature: Eduardo wrote poetry when he was allowed time away from the accounts books, while his brother was the enemy of anything that had so much as a whiff of literature about it.
Time passed, and still no sign of either the groom or Lieutenant Porfírio. The groom was essential to the wedding, and the lieutenant to the supper. It was half-past five when Luís Duarte finally arrived. Each guest sang a private “Hallelujah.”
He appeared at the door of the parlor and gave a low bow to the assembled guests, so gracefully and ceremoniously that Dr. Valença felt rather envious.
He was a young man of twenty-five, very fair-skinned, with a blond mustache and no beard at all. He wore his hair parted in the middle. His lips were so red that one of the Valadares brothers whispered to the other: “It looks like he’s wearing lipstick.” In short, Luís Duarte cut a figure guaranteed to please any twenty-year-old girl, and I would have no compunction in calling him an Adonis if he really were one, which he was not. At the appointed hour, bride and groom, parents and godparents set off for the church, which was nearby; the other guests remained in the house, with Luísa and Rodrigo doing the honors, although Rodrigo had to be summoned by his father, and duly appeared dressed in the very latest fashion.
“They’re like a pair of turtledoves,” said Dona Margarida Vilela when the wedding party had left.
“Very true,” agreed the Valadares brothers and Justiniano Vilela.
Young Luísa, who was, by nature, a cheerful girl, soon livened up the proceedings, chatting animatedly to the other girls, one of whom she invited to play something on the piano. Calisto Valadares suspected that the Scriptures had made a serious omission in excluding the piano from among the plagues of Egypt. The reader can imagine the look on his face when he saw one of the girls get up and walk over to that vile instrument. He uttered a long sigh and went to study the two engravings purchased the day before.
“Magnificent!” he said, standing before The Death of Sardanapalus, a painting he loathed.
“Yes, it was Papa who chose it,” said Rodrigo, and these were the first words he had spoken since entering the room.
“He obviously has good taste,” said Calisto. “Do you know what the painting is about?”
“It’s about Sardanapalus,” replied Rodrigo, undeterred.
“I know that,” retorted Calisto, hoping to continue the conversation, “what I meant was—”
He could not finish his sentence, because the first chords on the piano rang out.
Eduardo, who, in his role as poet, was expected to love music, too, strolled over to the piano and leaned on it in the melancholy pose of a man conversing with the muses. Meanwhile, his brother Calisto, finding it impossible to avoid the cascade of notes, went and sat down near Vilela, with whom he struck up conversation, beginning by asking what time it was by his watch. This touched Vilela’s tenderest nerve.
“It’s getting late,” he said in a faint voice. “Nearly six o’clock.”
“Can’t they! It’s a long ceremony and they might not have been able to find the priest . . . Marriages should be held at home and at night.”
“My feelings exactly.”
The girl finished playing, and Calisto breathed easily again, while Eduardo, still leaning on the piano, applauded enthusiastically.
“Why don’t you play something else?” he asked.
“Yes, Mariquinhas, play something from the La Sonnambula,” said Luísa, making her friend sit down again.
“Yes, La Son—”
Eduardo did not finish the word; he saw before him his brother’s two disapproving eyes, and winced. Stopping in midsentence and wincing could simply have been the sign of a painful corn. And so everyone thought, except for Vilela, who, assuming the others felt as he did, was convinced that some sharp hunger pang must have interrupted Eduardo’s thoughts. And as does sometimes happen, Eduardo’s pain awoke his own, so much so that Vilela’s stomach issued a real ultimatum, to which he succumbed, and, taking advantage of his position as family friend, he wandered off into the house, on the excuse that he needed to stretch his legs.
A marvelous idea.
The table was already laid with a few inviting titbits, and to Vilela’s eyes it seemed like a veritable cornucopia. Two pastries and a croquette were the palliatives Vilela sent to his rebellious stomach, and his viscera had to make do with that.
Meanwhile, Dona Mariquinhas was still performing miracles on the piano; Eduardo, now leaning at the window, appeared to be contemplating suicide, while his brother played with his watch chain and listened to Dona Margarida complaining about her feckless slaves. As for Rodrigo, he was pacing up and down, occasionally saying:
“Goodness, they’re taking their time!”
It was a quarter past six and still no carriages; some people were already growing impatient. At twenty past six, there was a faint rattle of wheels; Rodrigo ran to the window. It was a passing cab. At twenty-five past six, everyone thought they could hear carriages approaching.