The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis by Machado De Assis
“The very picture of innocence!” Ernesto told himself.
At the same time, he felt ashamed of such a benevolent opinion, and, remembering what the young man with the long nose had told him, he assumed a stern, serious air, not so much lover as judge, not so much judge as executioner.
Rosina stared down at the floor.
When her aunt asked Ernesto why he had not been to see them for so long, he attributed this to work and illness, the excuses used by anyone who has no genuine excuse. After a further brief exchange, the aunt left the room to give orders to the servants, having already surreptitiously told Juquinha to stay. Juquinha promptly climbed onto a chair and sat staring out of the window, thus giving Ernesto and Rosina time to talk.
It was an awkward situation, but there was no time to lose, as Rosina instantly understood, for she immediately burst out:
“Do you feel no remorse?”
“For what?” asked Ernesto in astonishment.
“For what you did to me.”
“Me?”
“Yes, abandoning me without a word of explanation. I can guess what lay behind it: some new suspicion, or, rather, some new calumny . . .”
“There was no calumny and no suspicion,” said Ernesto after a moment’s silence, “just the truth.”
Rosina muffled a cry; her pale, tremulous lips tried to speak, but failed; two large tears rolled down her cheeks. Ernesto could not bear to see her cry; however justified he felt in his suspicions, whenever he saw her crying, he would immediately relent and beg her forgiveness. This time, though, he could not easily go back to his former state of mind. His rival’s revelations were still fresh in his memory.
However, he did give in to her and begged her not to cry.
“Not cry?” she said in a tearful voice. “You ask me not to cry when I see my happiness slipping through my fingers, having lost any respect you once had for me, because you clearly do despise me, and without even knowing what the accusation is so that I could deny or disprove it . . .”
“Could you do that?” asked Ernesto passionately. “Could you prove the accusation to be wrong?”
“I could,” she said, with a magnificently dignified look on her face.
Ernesto summarized the conversation he’d had with the young man with the long nose, and concluded by saying that he had seen a letter she had written to him. Rosina listened in silence, clearly deeply distressed, her breast rising and falling. When he finished, she broke into loud sobs.
“Please,” said Ernesto softly, “someone might hear you.”
“I don’t care,” she cried, “I don’t care who hears.”
“But can you deny what I have just told you?”
“Not all of it, no, because some of it is true,” she answered in a sad voice.
“Ah!”
“The promise of marriage is a lie, and there were only two letters, and that . . . is your fault.”
“Mine?” exclaimed Ernesto, as amazed as if he had just seen two candlesticks dancing.
“Yes,” she said, “your fault. Don’t you remember? You had quarreled with me yet again, and I . . . I know it was foolish . . . but to give you a shock, to avenge myself . . . oh, I must have been mad . . . I did write to that impudent individual . . . it was madness on my part, I see that now . . . but what do you expect, I was so angry . . .”
Ernesto’s heart was greatly shaken by this new version of events. He would have expected Rosina to deny everything if she had intended to act malevolently; she would have declared that someone had imitated her handwriting; but, no, she admitted everything with the greatest nobility and simplicity; except—and herein lay the key to the situation—she was attributing it all to the extremes to which anger had driven her, thus revealing beneath the frivolous pastry, if we can compare the heart to a cake, the pure cream of love.
A few moments of silence ensued, in which she sat staring down at the floor, in the saddest, most melancholy pose ever struck by a repentant young woman.
“But did you not see that such madness could lead to my death?” said Ernesto.
Rosina shuddered to hear these words uttered in the gentle tone of old; she glanced up at him, then back at the floor.
“If I had thought that,” she said, “I would never have done what I did.”
“Quite right,” Ernesto responded, but, still filled with a cruel desire for revenge, he felt that her frivolity should be punished with a few more minutes of doubt and recrimination.
She listened to further accusations from Ernesto, and responded to them all with such contrition and with words so steeped in regret, that he almost felt his own eyes filling with tears. Rosina’s eyes were calmer now, and a lightness began to take the place of the melancholy shadows. The situation was almost as it had been a few weeks earlier; it needed only to be consolidated by time. Meanwhile, Rosina said:
“Don’t think I’m asking for more than I deserve. What I did must be punished in some way, and I am perfectly resigned to that. I asked you to come so that you could explain your silence, and I, for my part, have explained my own folly. I cannot hope for more . . .”
“You can’t?”
“No, my sole aim was to regain your respect.”
“And why not my love too?” asked Ernesto. “Do you really think that, by a simple act of the will, the heart can suddenly extinguish the flame that has burned in it for so long?”
“No, that’s impossible,” she cried, “and I know, for my part, how much I will suffer . . .”
“Far too much,” said Ernesto. “I was to blame for everything, I confess it now frankly. We must both forgive each other; I forgive you for your levity, and will you forgive me for that fateful quarrel?”
Had Rosina possessed a heart of bronze, she could not have refused the forgiveness for which her suitor was asking. Their generosity was reciprocal. As with the return of the prodigal son, those two souls celebrated the rebirth of their happiness and loved each other more than ever.
Three months later to the day, they were married in the Church of Sant’Ana, which was then to be found on Campo da Aclamação. The bride was radiant with happiness; the bridegroom appeared to breathe the air of celestial paradise. Rosina’s aunt gave a soirée attended by all of Ernesto’s friends, with the exception of the young man with the long nose.
This does not mean that their friendship suffered as a consequence. On the contrary, Ernesto’s rival showed great magnanimity, tightening the ties that had bound them ever since the unusual circumstance that first brought them together. More than that, two years after Ernesto’s marriage, we find the two of them running a notions store together, the best of friends. The young man with the long nose is even godfather to one of Ernesto’s sons.
“Why don’t you marry?” Ernesto sometimes asks his colleague, friend, and companion.
“No, it’s too late,” replies the other young man, “I’ll die an old bachelor.”
MUCH HEAT, LITTLE LIGHT
AT THE TIME, Luís Tinoco was twenty-one. He was of medium height, bright-eyed, tousle-haired, inexhaustibly loquacious, impetuous, and passionate. He held a modest position at the law courts, where he earned a meager crust, and he lived with his godfather, whose sole income was his pension. Tinoco held old Anastácio in the highest esteem, and Anastácio was equally fond of his godson.
Luís Tinoco was convinced he was destined for great things, and, for a long time, this proved to be his biggest obstacle in life. When Dr. Lemos first met Luís, the poetic flame was already beginning to burn in him, although no one knows quite how the fire was lit. Naturally, the thought of other men’s laurels began to keep him awake at night. Then, one morning, Luís Tinoco woke to find himself a fully fledged writer and poet; inspiration, which had been only the tightest of buds the night before, had blossomed into a lush, flamboyant flower. Luís hurled himself upon the blank page with ardor and determination, and between the hours of six and nine, before he was called down for breakfast, he produced a sonnet, w
The night before publication, the little sleep he had was interspersed with dreams from which he kept waking in a panic. Dawn finally came, and Luís Tinoco, not normally an early riser, rose with the sun and went off to read his sonnet in print. No mother ever contemplated her newborn child more lovingly than that young man, who read and reread his poem, which in any case he knew by heart. He imagined that all the other readers of the Correio Mercantil would be doing the same thing, and that every one of them would be admiring this new literary star and asking to whom that hitherto unknown name could possibly belong.
He did not rest on those imaginary laurels. Two days later, he produced another poem, this time a sentimental ode in which he complained to the moon about his scornful mistress, already foreseeing for himself a death as melancholy as that of the poet Nicolas Gilbert. He could not afford the further expense involved in having this new poem printed, but a friend managed to get it into the paper for free, which meant delaying publication for a few days. Luís Tinoco found the waiting hard to bear, and even suspected some envious editors at the Correio Mercantil of dragging their feet.
At last, the poem was published, and the poet was so pleased that he immediately went to reveal all to his godfather.
“Have you read today’s Correio Mercantil?” he asked.
“You know perfectly well that I used to read newspapers when I was working, but I never read them now that I’m retired.”
“Oh, that’s a shame!” said Luís coolly. “I was hoping you would tell me what you thought of a poem they’ve published.”
“A poem! Don’t newspapers write about politics anymore? In my day, they talked of little else.”
“They write about politics and they publish poems, because there’s room enough for both. Would you like to read it?”
“All right, give it here.”
And Luís duly produced a copy of the Correio Mercantil from his pocket, and old Anastácio began to read his godson’s work. With his eyes fixed on his godfather, Luís appeared to be trying to guess the impression made on him by his lofty thoughts, which he had put into verse taking all possible and impossible liberties with rhyme. Anastácio finished reading and pulled a face.
“Dreadful stuff!” he said to his horrified godson. “What the devil has the moon got to do with that young woman’s indifference, and why drag in some poor foreigner’s miserable death?”
Luís Tinoco felt like giving his godfather a good telling-off, but, instead, he merely smoothed back his hair and said with supreme disdain:
“Not everyone can understand poetry, of course, and that ‘dreadful stuff’ is mine.”
“Yours?” asked Anastácio, thunderstruck.
“Yes.”
“You mean you write poetry?”
“So they say.”
“But who taught you to write verses?”
“The ability to write poetry isn’t something you learn, it’s something you are born with.”
Anastácio reread the poem, and only then did he notice his godson’s name. There was no doubt about it: the boy had become a poet. To the retired old gentleman this spelled disaster, for the word “poet” was indissolubly linked in his mind with the word “poverty.”
He imagined Camões and Bocage, the only literary names he knew, to have been two street performers, regurgitating sonnets in exchange for a few coins, sleeping in churchyards, and eating in the coach houses of large mansions. When he discovered that his own dear Luís had been infected with this terrible malaise, Anastácio felt very sad, and it was then that he went to see Dr. Lemos to tell him of his godson’s fearful plight.
“I have to tell you that Luís is a poet.”
“Really?” asked Dr. Lemos. “Is he any good?”
“I don’t care if he’s good or bad. All I know is that it’s the worst thing that could possibly have befallen him, because poetry gets you nowhere. I’m afraid he’ll leave his job and end up on street corners babbling about the moon and surrounded by ne’er-do-wells.”
Dr. Lemos reassured him, saying that poets were not the vagabonds he imagined; he told him that poetry was no obstacle to leading an ordinary life, to becoming a deputy, a minister, or a diplomat.
“Nevertheless,” said Dr. Lemos, “I’ll speak to Luís and read what he’s written. I was a bit of versifier myself once and I’ll soon be able to judge if he’s any good or not.”
Luís Tinoco went to see the doctor and took with him the sonnet and the ode as well as other as yet unpublished pieces, which tended to be either odes or sonnets, full of hackneyed images and trite expressions—in short, little inspiration and even less art. And yet, despite this, there was the occasional glimmer indicating that the neophyte might actually have some talent, and could, in time, become an excellent drawing-room troubador.
Dr. Lemos told him frankly that poetry was a very difficult art and required long study, but that, if, despite all, he was determined to cultivate that art, then he should listen to some very necessary advice.
“Of course,” said Luís, “feel free, make any suggestions that might be useful. I wrote these poems so quickly, I had no time to correct them.”
“I really don’t think they’re very good,” said Dr. Lemos. “It would be best simply to tear them up and spend some time studying.”
It would be impossible to describe the proud, disdainful gesture with which Luís Tinoco snatched the poems from the doctor’s hand and said:
“Your advice is about as valuable as my godfather’s. As I told him, the ability to write poetry isn’t something you learn, it’s something you’re born with. I pay no heed to the envious. If the poems really were no good, the Correio Mercantil would never have published them.”
And with that he left.
From then on, there was no stopping him.
Tinoco began to write as furiously as a man who has been told that he has only a short time to live. The newspapers were full of his creations, some sad, some jolly, but the sadness and jollity were not of the sort that come straight from the heart; the sadness made one smile and the jollity made one yawn. Luís Tinoco confessed artlessly to the world that he was imbued with a Byronic skepticism, that he had drained the cup of sorrows to its dregs, that, as far as he was concerned, life had written Dante’s famous inscription above his door. And he quoted the words exactly, even though he had never read Dante. He bespattered his borrowed ideas with a selection of allusions and literary names, which was the full extent of his erudition, and felt no need, for example, to have read Shakespeare in order to quote “to be or not to be,” or mention Juliet’s balcony or Othello’s torment. He also had some very unusual ideas about the biographies of the famous. Once, while inveighing against his beloved—who still did not exist—it occurred to him to say that the climate in Rio was responsible for producing such monsters, much as the Italian sun had gilded the hair of the young Aspasia. When he chanced upon the psalms of Father Caldas, he found them soporific, although he spoke more kindly of The Death of Lindóia, the title he mistakenly gave to Basílio da Gama’s famous epic poem O Uraguai, of which he had read about four lines.
After five months, Luís Tinoco had produced a reasonable number of poems, enough for a volume of a hundred and eighty pages, allowing for a lot of blanks. He liked the idea of publishing a book, and soon one could rarely enter a shop without seeing on the counter a prospectus advertising:
Dr. Lemos occasionally saw him in the street. Luís Tinoco wore the inspired look of all novice poets who imagine themselves to be apostles and martyrs. Head held high, a dreamy look in his eyes, hair long and lush, he would sometimes button up his overcoat and stand with one hand thrust inside, Napoleon-style; at others, he would walk along with his hands behind his back.
Dr. Lemos spoke to him on the third such encounter, because on the first two occasions t
“Thank you,” he said, “such praise is the best possible reward for my labors. Ordinary people know nothing of poetry, only intelligent people like you, Doctor, can judge where praise is due. Did you read my ‘Pale Flower’?”
“The one that appeared on Sunday?”
“Yes.”
“I did. Charming.”
“And full of feeling too. I wrote that poem in half an hour and didn’t change a word. That often happens. What did you think of the somewhat eccentric scansion?”
“It was certainly eccentric.”
“Yes, I thought so too. I’m on my way to the newspaper now to offer them a poem I wrote yesterday. It’s entitled ‘Beside a Tomb.’ ”
“I see.”
“Have you already subscribed to my book?”
“No, not yet.”
“Well, don’t. I’d like to give you a copy. It will be coming out soon. I’m collecting subscriptions. Do you like the title?”
“Oh, yes, magnificent.”
“It came to me suddenly. I thought of others, but they were too run-of-the-mill. Gillyflowers and Camellias is so much more distinctive and original. It’s as if one were saying: sadnesses and joys.”
“Quite.”
While they talked, the poet kept rummaging around in his pocket and pulling out a seemingly endless stream of papers. He was looking for the poem he had mentioned. Dr. Lemos wanted to get away, but Tinoco would not let him, even grabbing his arm to keep him there. When Luís Tinoco threatened to read the poem out loud in the street, the doctor invited him, instead, to come and dine with him.
They went to a nearby hotel.
“Ah, my friend,” Luís Tinoco said on the way there, “you cannot imagine how many envious people are trying to blacken my name. My talent has been the target of all kinds of attacks, but I was prepared for that. It doesn’t frighten me. Camões’s sad death upon a wretched truckle bed is both an example and a consolation. Prometheus chained to the Caucasus is the very symbol of genius. Posterity is the revenge of those who are scorned in their own lifetime.”