The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis by Machado De Assis
“Since you’re such a close friend of his, can’t you tell us what’s happening, what happened, what reason . . . ?”
Crispim Soares was in raptures. These urgent inquiries from worried and curious neighbors and astonished friends were for him like a public coronation. There could be no doubt about it; the whole town finally knew that he, Crispim Soares, the apothecary, was the alienist’s closest friend, the great man’s confidant in all important matters; hence the general rush to see him. All this was evident in the apothecary’s cheery face and discreet smile, a smile accompanied by silence, for he said nothing in reply, or only, at most, a few abrupt monosyllables, cloaked in that fixed, unvarying half smile, full of scientific mysteries that he could not, without danger or dishonor, reveal to any living person.
“Something’s afoot,” thought the most suspicious.
One such person limited himself to merely thinking this, before turning his back and going on his way. He had personal matters to attend to. He had just finished building a sumptuous new house. The house alone was enough to attract people’s attention, but that was not all. There was the furniture, which he told everyone he had ordered from Hungary and Holland and which could be seen from the street, since he always left the windows wide open. And then there was the garden, a masterpiece of art and good taste. This man, who had made his fortune from the manufacture of saddles for mules and donkeys, had always dreamed of owning a magnificent house, a lavish garden, and exquisite furniture. He did not entirely give up his saddlemaking business, but sought repose from it in the quiet contemplation of his new house, the finest in Itaguaí, grander than the Casa Verde, nobler even than the town hall. Among the town’s most illustrious denizens there was a wailing and gnashing of teeth whenever anyone thought of, mentioned, or praised the saddler’s house—a mere donkey saddler, for goodness’ sake!
“There he is again, mouth agape,” said the morning passersby.
It was, in effect, Mateus’s custom each morning to stretch himself out in the middle of his garden and stare lovingly at his house for a good hour, until he was summoned in for lunch. His neighbors all addressed him most respectfully, but laughed gleefully behind his back. One of them even commented that Mateus would be even better off, a millionaire in fact, if he made the donkey saddles for himself; an unintelligible witticism if ever there was one, but it made the others howl with laughter.
“There he is, making a spectacle of himself as usual,” they would say as evening fell.
The reason for this was that in the early evenings, when families would take a stroll (having dined early), Mateus would position himself majestically at the window, in full view of everyone, his white suit standing out against the dark background, and he would stay like that for two or three hours until the light had completely faded. It can be assumed that Mateus’s intention was to be admired and envied, although it was not something he confessed to anyone, not even to his great friends, the apothecary and Father Lopes. At least that is what the apothecary said when the alienist informed him that the saddlemaker could well be suffering from a love of stones, a mania that Bacamarte had himself discovered, and had been studying for some time. The way he stared at his house . . .
“No, sir,” Soares answered vehemently.
“No?”
“Forgive me, but you are perhaps unaware that in the mornings he is examining the stonework, not admiring it, and, in the afternoons, it is other people who are doing the staring, at him and at the house.” And he recounted the saddlemaker’s habit of standing there every evening, from dusk until nightfall.
Simão Bacamarte’s eyes glinted with scientific delight. Perhaps he was indeed unaware of all of the saddlemaker’s habits, or perhaps, by interrogating Soares, he was seeking only to confirm some lingering doubt or suspicion. In any event, the apothecary’s explanation satisfied him; but since his were the refined pleasures of a learned man, the apothecary noticed nothing to suggest a sinister intention. On the contrary, it was early evening and the alienist suggested they take a stroll together. Good heavens! It was the first time Simão Bacamarte had bestowed such an honor upon his friend. Trembling and dazed, Crispim replied that yes, indeed, why not? Just at that moment, two or three customers came in; Crispim silently cursed them; not only were they delaying the stroll, there was a risk that Bacamarte might invite one of them to accompany him, and dispense with Crispim entirely. Such impatience! Such torment! Finally, the interlopers left. The alienist steered him toward the saddlemaker’s house, saw the saddlemaker standing at the window, passed slowly back and forth five or six times, pausing frequently to study the man’s posture and expression. Poor Mateus noticed only that he was the object of the curiosity or perhaps admiration of Itaguaí’s leading light, and struck an even grander pose. And thus, sadly, very sadly, he merely sealed his fate; the very next day he was carted off to the Casa Verde.
“The Casa Verde is nothing but a private jailhouse,” commented a doctor who had no clinic of his own.
Never did an opinion take root and flourish so quickly. Private jail: this was repeated throughout Itaguaí from north to south and from east to west. It was said in fear, because during the week that followed poor Mateus’s incarceration, some twenty people—two or three of whom were persons of rank—were carted off to the Casa Verde. The alienist said that only pathological cases were admitted, but few believed him. Popular theories abounded. Revenge, greed, divine retribution, the monomania of the doctor himself, a secret plot hatched by Rio de Janeiro to stamp out any germ of prosperity that might take root and flourish in Itaguaí to the disadvantage of the capital, and a thousand other explanations that explained nothing at all, but such was the daily produce of the public’s imagination.
This coincided with the return from Rio de Janeiro of the alienist’s wife, her aunt, Crispim Soares’s wife, and all—or nearly all—of the entourage that had left Itaguaí several weeks earlier. The alienist went to greet them, along with the apothecary, Father Lopes, the municipal councillors and various other worthy officials. The moment when Dona Evarista laid eyes upon her husband is considered by the chroniclers of the time to be one of the most sublime in the annals of the human spirit, on account of the contrast in their two natures, both extreme and both admirable. Dona Evarista uttered a cry, managed to stammer out a word or two, and then threw herself upon her spouse in a movement that can best be described as a combination of jaguar and turtledove. Not so the illustrious Bacamarte, who, with clinical detachment, not for an instant unbending from his scientific rigor, held out his arms to his wife, who fell into them and fainted. This lasted only a moment, and only two minutes later, Dona Evarista was being warmly greeted by her friends, and the procession once again moved on.
Dona Evarista was the hope of Itaguaí; the town counted on her to be a moderating influence on that scourge of the Casa Verde. Hence the public acclaim, the crowds thronging the streets, the flags, the flowers, and the damask silk banners hanging from the windows. With her arm resting on that of Father Lopes—for the eminent Bacamarte had entrusted his wife to the priest and was walking pensively beside them—Dona Evarista turned her head from side to side, curious, restless, brazen even. The priest inquired about Rio de Janeiro, which he had not seen since the reign of the previous viceroy, and Dona Evarista replied enthusiastically that it was the most beautiful thing in the whole wide world. The Passeio Público gardens were now finished and were indeed a paradise; she had gone there many times, as well as to the infamous Rua das Belas Noites, and to the Marrecas fountain . . . Ah, the Marrecas fountain! Yes, there really were Marrecas ducks there, made out of metal and spouting water from their beaks. A most exquisite thing! The priest agreed that Rio de Janeiro must indeed be even lovelier now; after all, it had been very beautiful even back in the old days! And no wonder, for it was bigger than Itaguaí and, moreover, the seat of government. But nor could it be said that Itaguaí was ugly; after all, it had beautiful houses such as Mateus’s, and the Casa Verde . . .
“And speaking of the Casa Verde,” said Father Lopes, gliding expertly onto the topic of the moment, “your ladyship will find it remarkably full these days.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, indeed. Mateus is there . . .”
“The saddlemaker?”
“The very one. And Costa, along with his cousin, as well as many others . . .”
“They’ve all gone mad?”
“Or nearly mad,” the priest replied judiciously.
“And?”
The priest turned down the corners of his mouth, as if to say he did not know, or did not wish to say; a vague response that could not be repeated to anyone else, since it contained no words. Dona Evarista thought it truly extraordinary that all of those people had gone mad; one or two, perhaps, but all of them? On the other hand, it was difficult for her to doubt it; her husband was a man of learning, and would never commit anyone to the Casa Verde without clear proof of insanity.
“Indeed . . . indeed . . .” repeated the priest at regular intervals.
Three hours later, fifty guests or so were seated around Simão Bacamarte’s table for a dinner to welcome home the travelers. Dona Evarista was the obligatory subject of toasts, speeches, verses of every kind, metaphors, hyperboles, and apologues. She was the wife of the new Hippocrates, the muse of Science, an angel, divine, the shining dawn, charity, life, and sweet consolation; her eyes were two stars, in the more modest version proposed by Crispim Soares, or two suns, according to the musings of a councillor. The alienist listened to these things, feeling mildly bored, but showing no visible signs of impatience. He merely whispered in his wife’s ear that such rhetorical flourishes were not to be taken seriously. Dona Evarista tried hard to share her husband’s opinion, but, even after discounting three-quarters of such fawning flattery, there was still more than enough to swell her pride. For example, one of the orators was a young man of twenty-five called Martim Brito, a consummate dandy well versed in amorous adventures and affairs; he delivered a speech in which the birth of Dona Evarista was explained in the most provocative manner. “After God gave the world both man and woman, who are the diamond and the pearl of His divine crown,” he said, triumphantly drawing out this part of the sentence as he took in the entire table, from one end to the other, “God wished to surpass even Himself, and so He created Dona Evarista.”
Dona Evarista lowered her eyes with exemplary modesty. Two ladies, considering such flattery excessive and even audacious, looked inquiringly at their host, where they indeed found the alienist’s expression clouded by suspicion, menace, and, quite possibly, bloodlust. The young man had shown great impudence, thought the two ladies. And each of them prayed to God to ward off any tragic consequences that might arise, or at the very least postpone them until the following day. Yes, that was it: postpone them. The more pious of the two ladies even admitted to herself that Dona Evarista scarcely merited such suspicion, being so far from being either attractive or witty. An insipid little simpleton. But then, if everyone liked the same color, what would happen to yellow? The thought made her tremble once again, although less than before; less, because now the alienist was smiling at Martim Brito and, when everyone got up from the table, he went over to him to exchange a few words about his speech. He congratulated the young man on his dazzling improvisation, full of magnificent flashes of wit. Was the idea about Dona Evarista’s birth his own invention, or had he found it in some book? No, sir, it was his own idea; it had occurred to him on that very occasion and seemed entirely fitting as an oratorical flourish. Besides, his ideas tended to be bold and daring rather than tender or jocular. He was a man suited to the epic. Once, for example, he had composed an ode to the fall of the Marquis of Pombal’s government, in which he had described the noble minister as the “harsh dragon of Nothingness,” crushed by the “vindictive claws of Everything.” There were others in a similar vein, always rather original, for he liked ideas that were rare and sublime, and images that were grand and noble . . .
“Poor boy!” thought the alienist. “Undoubtedly a case of cerebral lesion; not a life-threatening phenomenon, but certainly worthy of study.”
Dona Evarista was astounded when, three days later, she discovered that Martim Brito had been taken to the Casa Verde. A young man with such charming ideas! The two ladies blamed it on the alienist’s jealousy. What else could it be? The young man’s declaration had been far too bold.
Jealousy? But how then to explain, shortly afterward, the incarceration of the highly regarded José Borges do Couto Leme, the inveterate merrymaker Chico das Cambraias, the clerk Fabrício, and others besides? The terror grew. No one knew any longer who was sane and who was mad. Whenever their husbands left the house, wives would light a candle to the Virgin Mary; and some husbands didn’t even have the courage to venture out without one or two thugs to protect them. Palpable terror reigned. Those who could, left the town. One such fugitive was captured a mere two hundred paces from the town. He was a likable young man of thirty, chatty and polite, indeed so polite that whenever he greeted someone he would bow so low as to sweep the ground with his hat; in the street he would often run a distance of ten or twenty yards to shake the hand of a worthy gentleman, a lady, sometimes even a mere boy, as had happened with the chief magistrate’s son. He had a vocation for bowing. Besides, he owed his good standing in the town not only to his personal attributes, which were unusual, but also to the noble tenacity with which he never gave up, even after one, two, four, or even six scowling rejections. Gil Bernardes’s charms were such that, once invited into someone’s house, he was disinclined to leave and his host equally disinclined to let him leave. But, despite knowing he was well liked, Bernardes took fright when he heard one day that the alienist had his eye on him; the following day he fled the town before dawn, but was quickly apprehended and taken to the Casa Verde.
“We have to put an end to this!”
“It can’t go on!”
“Down with tyranny!”
“Despot! Brute! Goliath!”
These were whispers in houses rather than shouts in the street, but the time for shouts would come soon enough. Terror mounted; rebellion approached. The idea of petitioning the government to have Simão Bacamarte arrested and deported crossed several people’s minds, even before Porfírio, the barber, gave full expression to it in his shop, accompanied by grand, indignant gestures. And let it be noted—for this is one of the purest pages of this whole somber story—let it be noted that ever since the Casa Verde’s population had begun to grow in such an extraordinary fashion, Porfírio had seen his profits greatly increase on account of the incessant demand for leeches from the asylum; but his own personal gain, he said, must give way to the public good. And, he added: “the tyrant must be defeated!” It should also be noted that he unleashed this cry on the very day Bacamarte had committed to the Casa Verde a man by the name of Coelho who had brought a lawsuit against Porfírio.
“Can anyone tell me in what sense a man like Coelho is mad?” railed Porfírio.
No one could answer him; they all repeated one after another that Coelho was perfectly sane. Coelho’s lawsuit against the barber, concerning some plots of land in the town, arose from a dispute over some old and very obscure property deeds, and not from any hatred or greed. An excellent fellow, Coelho. His only detractors were a handful of grumpy individuals who, claiming they didn’t have time to chat, would duck around the corner or into a shop as soon as they caught sight of him. In truth, Coelho did love a good chat, a long chat, slowly sipped or in deep drafts, and so it was that he was never alone, always preferring those who could string two words together, but never turning his back on the less loquacious. Father Lopes, who was a devotee of Dante and an enemy of Coelho, could never watch the man tear himself away from a companion without reciting from Inferno, with his own witty amendment:
La bocca sollevò dal fiero pasto
Quel “seccatore” . . .
However, while some people knew that
Chapter 6
THE REBELLION
Roughly thirty people joined forces with the barber, drafting a formal complaint and taking it to the town hall.
The council refused to accept the complaint, declaring that the Casa Verde was a public institution and that science could not be amended by administrative vote, still less by the mob.
“Go back to work,” concluded the mayor. “That’s our advice to you.”
The agitators were furious. The barber declared that they would raise the banner of rebellion and destroy the Casa Verde; that Itaguaí could no longer serve as a cadaver to be studied and experimented on by a despot; that many estimable and even distinguished people were languishing in the cells of the Casa Verde, as well as other, humbler individuals no less worthy of esteem; that the alienist’s scientific despotism was complicated by issues of greed, given that the insane, or rather those accused of insanity, were not being treated for free: their families, or, failing that, the council, were footing the bill—
“That’s quite false!” interrupted the mayor.
“False?”
“About two weeks ago, we received formal notification from the eminent doctor that, since the experiments he was performing were of the highest psychological value, he would no longer accept the stipend approved by the council, just as he would no longer accept any payment from the patients’ families.