The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis by Machado De Assis
The news of such a pure and noble act somewhat dampened the rebels’ spirits. The alienist could very well be wrong, but clearly he was motivated by no interest other than science, and if they were to prove that mistakes had been made, then something more than noisy rabble-rousing was needed. Thus spoke the mayor, to vigorous cries of, “Hear, hear!” from the whole council. After a few moments of reflection, the barber declared that he had been given a mandate from the people and would not let matters rest until the Casa Verde, “that Bastille of human reason”—an expression he had heard from a local poet and which he now emphatically repeated—had been razed to the ground. Having said his piece, he left the building with all his followers.
The position of the councillors can easily be imagined: there was a pressing need to forestall the mob and head off revolt, battle, and bloodshed. To make matters worse, one of the councillors who had previously supported the mayor, on hearing the Casa Verde described as a “Bastille of human reason,” thought it such an elegant turn of phrase that he changed his mind. It would, he said, be advisable to come up with some measures to control the Casa Verde. When the mayor expressed his indignation in energetic terms, the councillor made this observation:
“I don’t know much about science, but if so many apparently sane men are being locked up as lunatics, who’s to say that it isn’t the alienist himself who has become alienated from reason?”
Sebastião Freitas, the dissenting councillor, was a gifted speaker and carried on talking for some time, choosing his words prudently, but emphatically. His colleagues were astonished; the mayor requested that he at least set an example of respect for the rule of law by keeping his ideas to himself in public, so as not to give form and substance to the rebellion, which at that moment was still “nothing but a swirl of scattered atoms.” The appeal of this image somewhat mitigated the effect of the earlier one, and Sebastião Freitas promised to refrain from taking any overt course of action, although he reserved the right to pursue all legal avenues in order to bring the Casa Verde to heel. And, still enamored of the phrase, he repeated to himself: “A Bastille of human reason!”
Meanwhile, the protests grew. Now there were not thirty but three hundred persons accompanying the barber, whose nickname deserves mentioning at this point because it became the name of the revolt; they called him Canjica, after a kind of milky porridge, and so the movement became known as the Canjica Rebellion. The action itself may well have been limited, given that many people, by virtue of fear or upbringing, did not take to the streets, but the feeling was unanimous, or almost unanimous, and the three hundred who marched to the Casa Verde could well be compared, give or take the evident differences between Paris and Itaguaí, to those brave citizens who stormed the Bastille.
Dona Evarista got wind of the approaching mob; one of the houseboys came to tell her as she was trying on a new silk dress (one of the thirty-seven she had brought back from Rio de Janeiro), but she refused to believe it.
“Oh, it must be some revelry,” she said, adjusting a pin. “Now then, Benedita, check to see if the hem is straight.”
“It is, mistress,” replied the slave-woman squatting on the floor. “It’s just fine. Could you turn a little? Yes, it’s fine.”
“They’re not revelers, ma’am; they’re shouting, ‘Death to Dr. Bacamarte the tyrant!’ ” exclaimed the terrified houseboy.
“Shut up, you idiot! Benedita, look there on the left side; don’t you think the seam is a bit crooked? The blue stripe doesn’t go the whole way down; it looks terrible like that. You’ll need to unpick the whole thing and make it exactly the same as—”
“Death to Dr. Bacamarte! Death to the tyrant!” shouted three hundred voices outside. It was the mob emerging into Rua Nova.
The blood drained from Dona Evarista’s face. At first she was too petrified to move. The slave-woman instinctively made for the back door. As for the houseboy whom Dona Evarista had refused to believe, he enjoyed a moment of sudden, imperceptible triumph, a deep-seated sense of moral satisfaction, on seeing that reality had taken his side.
“Death to the alienist!” shouted the voices, closer now.
Dona Evarista may not have found it easy to resist the siren calls of pleasure, but she knew how to confront moments of danger. She did not faint, but instead ran into the next room, where her husband was immersed in his studies. When she entered the room, the illustrious doctor was hunched over a text of Averroes; his eyes, shrouded in meditation, traveled from book to ceiling and from ceiling to book, blind to the outside world, but clear-sighted enough when it came to the innermost workings of his mind. Dona Evarista called to her husband twice without him paying her the slightest attention; the third time, he heard her and asked what was wrong, if she was feeling ill.
“Can’t you hear them shouting?” she asked tearfully.
The alienist listened; the shouts were drawing nearer, terrifying and threatening; he immediately understood the situation. He stood up from his high-backed chair, closed his book, strode calmly and purposefully over to the bookshelf, and put the book back in its place. Inserting it slightly disturbed the alignment of the two volumes on either side, and Simão Bacamarte took care to correct this minor yet interesting imperfection. Then he told his wife to go to her room and stay there, no matter what.
“No, no,” implored the worthy lady, “I want to die by your side . . .”
Simão Bacamarte insisted that it was not a case of life and death, and that even if it were, she must on all accounts stay put. The poor woman tearfully and obediently bowed her head.
“Down with the Casa Verde!” shouted the Canjicas.
The alienist walked over to the balcony at the front of the house, arriving at the same time as the mob, those three hundred faces shining with civic virtue and dark with rage. “Die! Die!” they shouted from all sides the moment the alienist appeared on the balcony. When Simão Bacamarte gestured to them to let him speak, the rebels indignantly shouted him down. Then, waving his hat to silence the crowd, the barber managed to calm his companions, and told the alienist that he could speak, adding that he must not abuse the people’s patience as he had been doing up until then.
“I will say little, or even nothing at all, if that is what’s required. First of all, I want to know what you are asking for.”
“We’re not asking for anything,” replied the barber, shaking. “We’re demanding that the Casa Verde be demolished, or, at the very least, that the poor unfortunates within be set free.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You understand perfectly well, tyrant; we want to liberate the victims of your hatred, your cruel whims, your greed . . .”
The alienist smiled, but the great man’s smile proved invisible to the eyes of the multitude; it was a faint contraction of two or three muscles, nothing more. He smiled and replied:
“Gentlemen, science is a serious matter, and deserves to be treated as such. I do not answer to anyone for my professional actions, save to God and the great masters of Science. If you are seeking changes in how the Casa Verde is run, I am prepared to listen; but if you are asking me to reject everything I believe in, you will go away empty-handed. I could invite some of you, as a delegation, to come and visit the poor deranged inmates with me, but I won’t do so, because that would entail explaining my whole system, which is something I will never reveal to laymen, still less to rebels.”
Thus spoke the alienist to the astonished crowd; they were clearly not expecting him to exhibit such determination, still less such serenity. Their amazement grew still greater when the alienist gave a solemn bow to the crowd, then turned and went slowly back inside. The barber quickly came to his senses and, brandishing his hat, invited his friends to go with him and tear down the Casa Verde. Only a few half-hearted voices responded. It was at this decisive moment that the barber felt the first stirrings of an ambition to govern; it seemed to him that by demolishing the Casa Verde and defeating the alienist, he would be able to sei
“Let us fight, dear friends, to the very end! The salvation of Itaguaí is in your noble and heroic hands! Let us tear down the prison of your sons and fathers, of your mothers and sisters, of your relatives and friends, and of your own good selves. If not, you will waste away on a diet of bread and water, or perhaps be flogged to death, in the dungeons of that despicable man.”
The crowd grew agitated again, muttering, then shouting, then shaking its fists, before thronging around the barber. The revolt was recovering from its brief dizzy spell, and threatening once again to raze the Casa Verde.
“Onward!” cried Porfírio, with a flourish of his hat.
“Onward!” bellowed the crowd.
But something stopped them: a corps of dragoons came marching at double time into Rua Nova.
Chapter 7
SOMETHING UNEXPECTED
When the dragoons reached the Canjicas there was a moment of bewilderment; the rebels could scarcely believe that the full force of the state had been sent in against them, but the barber immediately grasped the situation and waited. The dragoons stopped, and the captain ordered the crowd to disperse. However, while some were inclined to obey, others rallied strongly around the barber, who responded with these rousing words:
“We will not disperse. If it is our corpses you want, you can have them, but only our corpses, for you will not take from us our honor, our reputation, or our rights, and with them the very salvation of Itaguaí.”
Nothing could be more reckless than this response from the barber, and nothing more natural. Call it the giddy impulse of all moments of crisis. Perhaps it was also an excess of confidence, an assumption that the dragoons would not resort to violence, an assumption that the captain quickly dispelled by ordering his troops to charge the Canjicas. What followed defied description. The crowd bellowed with rage; some managed to escape by climbing into the windows of houses, others by running down the street, but most remained, howling in angry indignation, spurred on by the barber’s exhortations. The defeat of the Canjicas was imminent, when, for reasons the chronicles do not reveal, a third of the dragoons suddenly switched to the rebels’ side. This unexpected reinforcement gave new heart to the Canjicas, while sowing despondency among the ranks of law and order. The loyal troops had no desire to attack their own comrades, and, one by one, they crossed over to join them, so that after a few minutes, the picture had completely changed. On one side stood the captain, accompanied by only a handful of men, facing a dense throng calling for his head. There was nothing to be done; he acknowledged defeat and surrendered his sword to the barber.
The triumphant revolution lost not a single moment; the wounded were taken to nearby houses, and the mob set off toward the town hall. Troops and citizens fraternized, shouting three cheers for the king, the viceroy, Itaguaí, and their illustrious leader, Porfírio. The man himself walked in front, grasping the sword as deftly as if it were nothing but a rather long razor. Victory had surrounded him with a mysterious aura. The dignity of office had begun to stiffen his sinews.
The councillors, peering at the crowd and soldiers from the windows, assumed that the troops had subdued the rabble, and, without further ado, went back inside and approved a petition to the viceroy asking him to pay a month’s wages to the dragoons, “whose bravery saved Itaguaí from the abyss into which it had been driven by a bunch of rebels.” This phrase was proposed by Sebastião Freitas, the dissenting councillor whose defense of the Canjicas had so scandalized his colleagues. However, any illusion of victory was quickly shattered. The cries of, “Long live the barber,” “Death to the councillors,” and “Death to the doctor,” revealed to them the sad truth. The chairman did not lose heart: “Whatever our own fate may be,” he said, “let us remember that we serve His Majesty and the people.” Sebastião Freitas suggested that they could better serve both Crown and town by slipping out the back door and going to confer with the chief magistrate, but all the other councillors rejected this proposal.
Seconds later, the barber, accompanied by some of his lieutenants, entered the council chamber and peremptorily informed the council that they had been overthrown. The councillors offered no resistance, surrendered, and were taken off to jail. The barber’s followers then proposed that he assume control of the town, in the name of His Majesty. Porfírio accepted, despite (he added) being all too aware of the pitfalls of high office. He went on to say that he could not do it without the support of all those present, to which they promptly agreed. The barber went to the window and relayed these decisions to the people, who ratified them with cheers of acclamation. The barber assumed the title of “Protector of the Town in the Name of His Majesty and the People.” Various important edicts were quickly issued, including official communications from the new administration and a detailed report to the viceroy filled with many protestations of loyal obedience to His Majesty. Finally, there was a short but energetic proclamation to the people:
PEOPLE OF ITAGUAÍ!
A corrupt and violent council was found to be conspiring against the interests of His Majesty and the People, and was roundly condemned by the public; as a consequence, a handful of Citizens, bravely supported by His Majesty’s loyal dragoons, have this very day ignominiously dissolved said Council, and with the unanimous consent of the town, the Supreme Mandate has been entrusted to me, until such time as His Majesty sees fit to order whatever may best serve his royal Person. People of Itaguaí! All that I ask is that you give me your trust, and that you assist me in restoring peace and the public finances, so wantonly squandered by the Council that has now met its fate at your hands. You may count on my dedication and self-sacrifice, and be assured that we will have the full backing of the Crown.
Protector of the Town in the Name of His Majesty and the People
PORFÍRIO CAETANO DAS NEVES
Everyone noticed that the proclamation made no mention of the Casa Verde, and, according to some, there could be no clearer indication of the barber’s evil intentions. The danger was even more pressing given that, in the midst of these momentous events, the alienist had locked up seven or eight more people, including two women, one of the men being a relative of the Protector. This was undoubtedly not intended as a deliberate challenge or act of defiance, but everyone interpreted it as such and the town was filled with the hope that, within twenty-four hours, the alienist would be in irons and that fearful prison destroyed.
The day ended merrily. While the town crier went around reading out the proclamation on every corner, people spilled out into the streets and swore to defend to the death their illustrious Porfírio. If few bothered to protest against the Casa Verde, this was merely proof of their confidence in the new government. The barber issued a decree declaring the day to be a public holiday, and because the combination of temporal and spiritual powers struck him as highly desirable, he suggested to the priest that a “Te Deum” might be sung. Father Lopes, however, bluntly refused.
“I trust that, in any event, Your Reverence will not join forces with the new government’s enemies?” the barber said to him darkly.
To which Father Lopes replied without replying:
“How could I do that, if the new government has no enemies?”
The barber smiled; it was absolutely true. Apart from the captain, the councillors, and a handful of grandees, the whole town was on his side. Even those gran
Chapter 8
THE APOTHECARY’S DILEMMA
Twenty-four hours after the events narrated in the preceding chapter, the barber, accompanied by two orderlies, left the government palace—as the town hall was now called—and went to the home of Simão Bacamarte. He was not unaware that it would be more fitting for the government to send for Bacamarte; however, fearing that the alienist might not obey, he felt obliged to adopt a tolerant, moderate stance.
I will not describe the apothecary’s terror upon hearing that the barber was on his way to the alienist’s house. “He’s going to arrest him,” he thought, his anxieties redoubling. Indeed the apothecary’s moral torment during those revolutionary days exceeds all description. Never had a man found himself in a tighter spot: his close acquaintance with the alienist urged him to join his side, while the barber’s victory inclined him toward the other. News of the uprising itself had already shaken him to the core, for he knew how universally the alienist was hated, and the victorious rebellion was the last straw. Soares’s wife, a redoubtable woman and close friend of Dona Evarista, told him in no uncertain terms that his place was at Simão Bacamarte’s side; meanwhile, his heart was screaming that this was a lost cause and that no one, of his own free will, shackles himself to a corpse. “True enough, Cato did it, sed victa Catoni,” he thought, remembering one of Father Lopes’s favorite phrases. “But Cato did not attach himself to a lost cause: he himself had been the lost cause, he and his republic; moreover, his act was that of an egotist, a miserable egotist; my situation is entirely different.” His wife, however, would not give in, so Crispim Soares was left with no other option than to declare himself ill and take to his bed.