The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis by Machado De Assis
12. Who said: “Now, then, I want to know the reason for the fight.”
13. This word ignited the hatred in the hearts of both men. Japheth, however, was the first to speak, and said:
14. “Shem invaded my land, the land on which I had chosen to pitch my tent when the waters subside and the ark descends, according to the Lord’s promise;
15. “And I, who will not abide plunder, said unto my brother: ‘Art thou not content with five hundred cubits, that thou wilt have ten more?’ And he replied to me: ‘I want ten more and both banks of the river that shall divide my land from thine.’ ”
16. Noah, listening to his son, had his eyes upon Shem; and when Japheth had finished, he asked his brother: “How dost thou answer?”
17. And Shem said: “Japheth is lying, because I only took from him the ten cubits of land when he refused to divide the river between us; and in proposing that I keep both riverbanks, I even agreed that he could measure out another ten cubits at the back of his lands,
18. “To compensate for what he was losing; but the iniquity of Cain spoke within him and he wounded my head, my face, and my hands.”
19. And Japheth interrupted him, saying: “And didst thou not wound me also? Am not I bloodied as thee? Look at my face and my neck; look at my cheeks, which thou didst tear with thy tiger claws.”
20. As Noah began to speak, he observed that his two sons once again seemed to challenge each other with their eyes. So he said: “Hear me!” But the two brothers, blind with rage, grappled with each other once again, shouting: “Whose river is it?”—“The river is mine.”
21. And only with great difficulty could Noah, Ham, and the wives of Shem and Japheth hold back the two warriors, whose blood began to gush forth copiously.
22. Noah, however, raising his voice, cried out: “Cursed is he who obeys me not! He shall be cursed not seven times, not seventy times seven, but seven hundred times seventy.
23. “Therefore I say unto you that, before the ark descends, I want no pacts regarding the place where you will pitch your tents.”
24. After this he grew thoughtful.
25. And, raising his eyes to heaven, because the hatch above him was open, he cried out in sadness:
26. “They do not yet possess the earth and already they are fighting over borders. What will happen when Turkey and Russia come along?”
27. And none of Noah’s sons could understand these words of their father.
28. The ark, meanwhile, continued to float upon the waters of the abyss.
DONA BENEDITA
A Portrait
Chapter I
THE MOST DIFFICULT THING in the world, apart from governing a country, must surely be that of guessing Dona Benedita’s exact age. Some said forty, some forty-five, others thirty-six. One stockbroker went as low as twenty-nine, but his judgment, clouded by hidden intentions, lacked the necessary stamp of sincerity that we all like to see in human opinions. Indeed, I only mention it to illustrate, from the very outset, that Dona Benedita was always the very model of good manners. The stockbroker’s flattery served only to arouse her indignation, albeit momentarily, yes, momentarily. As for those other estimates, oscillating between thirty-six and forty-five, none of them could be contradicted by Dona Benedita’s appearance, which was both maturely serious and youthfully graceful. The only surprising thing is that such speculation continued, when in order to know the truth one needed only to ask her.
Dona Benedita reached her forty-second birthday on Sunday the nineteenth of September, 1869. At six o’clock in the evening, friends and relations, some twenty or twenty-five in number, are gathered around the family table. Many of them were also present at her birthday dinners of 1868, 1867, and 1866, and they have always heard their hostess’s age frankly alluded to. Moreover, there at the table, for all to see, are a young lady and a young master, her children; it is true that he, both in size and manners, is still somewhat boyish; on the other hand, the young lady, Eulália, is eighteen, although such is the severity of her manners and features that she looks twenty-one.
The joviality of the guests, the excellence of the dinner, certain matrimonial negotiations entrusted to Canon Roxo (of which more shall be said anon), and the hostess’s generous nature, all these make for an intimate and happy affair. The canon stands up to carve the turkey. Dona Benedita has always abided by the custom in modest households of entrusting the turkey to one of the guests, instead of having it carved away from the table by servants, and the canon was the maestro of such solemn occasions. Nobody knew the bird’s anatomy better than he, nor how to wield the knife so nimbly. Perhaps—and this is a matter for the experts—perhaps his status as a canon gave to the carving knife, in the minds of the guests, a certain prestige, which would be lacking if, for example, he were a mere student of mathematics or an office clerk. On the other hand, would a student or scribe, without the lessons of long practice, have at their disposal the canon’s consummate art? That is another important question.
As for the other guests, they are sitting and chatting; the gurgle of half-sated stomachs reigns, the laughter of nature on its way to repleteness; it is a moment of relaxation.
Dona Benedita is talking, as are her visitors; however, she does not speak to all of them, but only to the one seated next to her. Her neighbor is a plump, kindly, cheerful lady, the mother of a twenty-one-year-old graduate, Leandrinho, who is sitting opposite them. Dona Benedita is not merely talking to the plump lady, she is clasping one of her hands, and not only is she clasping the plump lady’s hand, she is also looking at her with vivacious, lovestruck eyes. Note that hers is not a persistent or prolonged gaze, but rather a series of small, restless, momentary glances. In any event, there is much tenderness in that gesture, and even if there weren’t, nothing would be lost, because Dona Benedita repeats with her lips everything that her eyes have already said to Dona Maria dos Anjos: that she is absolutely delighted, that it is wonderful to meet her, that Dona Maria is so very kind, so very dignified, that her eyes are the very windows of her soul, and so on. One of her friends says jokingly to Dona Benedita that she is making her jealous.
“Oh, stuff and nonsense!” she replies, laughing.
And, turning back to the other woman:
“Don’t you agree? No one should come between us.”
And she carried on showering her with compliments, courtesies, and smiles, the offers of more of this, more of that, plans to go on a trip together or perhaps to the theater, and promises of many visits, all spoken in such warm, effusive tones that her new companion was visibly throbbing with pleasure and gratitude.
The turkey has been eaten. Dona Maria dos Anjos signals to her son, who stands up and asks them to accompany him in a toast:
“Ladies and gentlemen, there is a saying in French: les absents ont tort. Let us resolutely reject this, and drink to someone who is far, far away in terms of space, but close, very close indeed, to the heart of his dear wife. Let us drink to that most illustrious judge, Justice Proença.”
The toast did not receive an enthusiastic response from the assembled guests, and to understand why one need only look at the sad face of their hostess. Her closest friends and relatives whispered to one another that young Leandrinho had been very thoughtless indeed; they drank the toast, but refrained from cheering, so as not, it would seem, to exacerbate Dona Benedita’s suffering. In vain: Dona Benedita, unable to contain herself, burst into tears, got up from the table, and left the room. Dona Maria dos Anjos went with her. There then followed a deathly silence. Eulália begged them all to carry on as normal, saying that her mother would be back shortly.
“Mama is very sensitive,” she said, “and the idea of Papa being so far away . . .”
Dismayed, Leandrinho apologized to Eulália. The fellow sitting next to him explained that Dona Benedita could not hear her husband’s name mentioned without feeling a crushing blow to her heart, promptly followed by tears; Leandrinho replied that he was aware of her misfortune, but
“And yet it’s the most natural thing in the world,” explained the fellow, “for she misses her husband terribly.”
“The canon,” replied Leandrinho, “told me her husband went to Pará about two years ago.”
“Two and a half years. He was appointed district judge by the Zacarias government. He would have preferred the appeal court in São Paulo, or perhaps Bahia, but it was not to be, and so he accepted Pará instead.”
“And he hasn’t been back since?”
“No.”
“I presume Dona Benedita is afraid of such a long sea voyage . . .”
“I don’t believe so. She’s already been to Europe. No, if I recall correctly, she stayed behind in Rio to sort out some family affairs, and then stayed on, and on, and now . . .”
“But would it not have been far better to go to Pará than to suffer like this? Do you know her husband?”
“I do; a very distinguished gentleman, and still hale and hearty; he couldn’t be more than forty-five. Tall, bearded, handsome. People used to say that he didn’t insist on his wife joining him because he had fallen for some widow up there.”
“Ah!”
“And someone even came and told Dona Benedita. Imagine how the poor lady must have felt! She cried all night, and the next day she wouldn’t eat any breakfast, and made arrangements to take the very next steamship to Pará.”
“But she didn’t go?”
“No. She canceled three days later.”
At that moment, Dona Benedita returned, on the arm of Dona Maria dos Anjos. She smiled in embarrassment, apologized for the interruption, and sat down once again with her new friend by her side, thanking her profusely for looking after her and again clasping her hand.
“I can see you only want what’s good for me,” she said.
“It’s only what you deserve,” said Dona Maria dos Anjos.
“Really?” Dona Benedita said, with a mix of vanity and modesty.
And she declared that, no, it was the other lady who was truly good, just like her name. Dona Maria dos Anjos was an angel, a real angel! And Dona Benedita underlined the word with the same loving gaze, not persistent or prolonged, but restless and intermittent. For his part, the canon, seeking to expunge all memory of the unfortunate incident, changed the topic of conversation to the weighty matter of which was the best dessert. Opinions diverged widely. Some thought the coconut dessert was best, some the one with cashew nuts, and others the orange one, etc. The author of the toast, Leandrinho, said—although not with his lips but slyly with his eyes—that the sweetest of desserts were Eulália’s cheeks—a dusky, rosy-cheeked dessert. His own mother inwardly approved of those unspoken words, while the young woman’s mother did not even see them, so caught up was she in her adoration of her new friend. An angel, a real angel!
Chapter II
The next day, Dona Benedita got up from her bed with the idea of writing a letter to her husband, a long letter in which she would tell him about the party, name all the guests and the different dishes, describe the reception afterward, and, more importantly, tell him about her new friendship with Dona Maria dos Anjos. The mail pouch closed at two in the afternoon, Dona Benedita had woken at nine, and, since she didn’t live far away (her house was on the Campo da Aclamação), a slave would be able to deliver the letter to the post office in plenty of time. What’s more, it was raining; Dona Benedita pulled back the net curtain and saw the drenched windowpanes; a persistent drizzle was falling, the sky was dark and overcast and dotted with thick black clouds. In the distance, she could see a cloth fluttering and flapping over a basket carried on the head of a black woman, from which she concluded that it was windy. A splendid day for staying at home, and, therefore, for writing a letter, two letters, or indeed all the letters a wife could possibly write to her absent husband. No one would come to tempt her away.
While she arranges the lace fringes and frills on her white linen dressing gown, which the eminent judge had given her in 1862, also on her birthday, September 19, I invite the reader to take a closer look at her. You will notice that I refrain from calling her a Venus, but nor do I call her a Medusa. Unlike Medusa, she wears her hair brushed smoothly back and fastened just above the nape of her neck. Her eyes are ordinary enough, but have a kindly expression. Her mouth is the sort that appears cheerful even when not smiling, and enjoys that other remarkable gift of showing neither remorse nor regret: one could even say it is devoid of desires, but I will say only what I want to say, and I wish to speak only of remorse and regret. This head, which neither excites nor repels, sits on a body that is tall rather than short, and neither thin nor fat, but in proportion with her build. But I won’t describe her hands just yet. Why should I? You will admire them soon enough, holding pen to paper with slender, idle fingers, two of them adorned with five or six rings.
One need only see the way in which she arranges the lacy frills of her gown in order to understand that she is a persnickety woman, fond of keeping everything around her and herself tidy. I note that she has just torn the lace trimming on her left cuff, but that is because she, being impatient by nature, blurted out, “Damn and blast the thing.” Those were her exact words, immediately followed by a “May God forgive me!” which took all the venom out of her. I don’t say that she stamped her foot, but she might have, since that is a gesture natural to certain ladies when annoyed. In any event, her anger lasted barely a minute. She then went to her sewing box to stitch up the torn lace, but decided to make do with a pin. The pin fell to the floor; she knelt down and picked it up. There were of course others in the box, many others, but she didn’t think it wise to leave pins lying on the floor. As she knelt, she caught sight of the tip of her slipper, on which there was a white mark; she sat down on the nearby chair, removed her slipper, and saw what it was: it had been chewed by a cockroach. Dona Benedita again fell into a rage, because the slipper was a very smart one, and had been given to her the year before by a dear friend. An angel, a real angel! Dona Benedita fixed her eyes on the white mark; happily their usual expression of simple charity was not so charitable as to allow itself to be entirely replaced by other, less passive expressions, and so it resumed its rightful place. Dona Benedita turned the slipper over and over, passing it from one hand to the other, lovingly at first, then mechanically, until her hands stopped moving completely, and the slipper fell into her lap, and Dona Benedita sat staring into space. At this point, the clock in the drawing room began to strike. After the first two chimes, Dona Benedita shuddered:
“Good Lord! It’s ten o’clock!”
And she quickly put her slipper back on, hurriedly pinned the cuff of her gown, and went to her writing desk to begin the letter. She had put the date and “My ungrateful husband,” and had barely written: “Did you think of me yesterday? I . . .” when Eulália knocked on her door, calling out:
“Mama! Mama! It’s time for breakfast.”
Dona Benedita opened the door, Eulália kissed her hand, then raised her own hands heavenward:
“Goodness gracious! What a sleepyhead!”
“Is breakfast ready?”
“Yes, it’s been ready for ages!”
“But I gave orders that breakfast today should be later than usual . . . I’ve been writing to your father.”
She looked at her daughter for a few moments, as if about to say something serious, or at least difficult, such was the grave, indecisive look in her eyes. But, in the end, she said nothing, and her daughter, announcing again that breakfast was served, took her by the arm and led her away.
Let us leave them to eat breakfast at leisure, and take the weight off our feet here in the drawing room, without, however, feeling the need to catalogue every item of its furniture, just as we have failed to do in any other room of the house. Not that the furniture is ugly or in bad taste; on the contrary, it is all rather good. But the overall impression is rather strange, as if the choice of furnishings were
It was a quarter past eleven. Dona Benedita spoke with her daughter until shortly after midday, so as to have time to digest her breakfast and write the letter. As you are aware, the mail pouch closes at two o’clock. And so, a few minutes after midday, Dona Benedita told her daughter to go and practice the piano, so that she could finish the letter. Dona Benedita left the drawing room; Eulália went over to the window, glanced out at the square outside, and I can vouch for the fact that she did so with a glimmer of sadness in her eyes. It was not, however, a weak and indecisive sadness; it was the sadness of a resolute young woman who anticipates the pain her actions will cause to others, but, nevertheless, swears to go through with them, and does go through with them. I accept that not all these details could be surmised merely from Eulália’s eyes, but it is for this very reason that stories are told by someone who takes it upon themselves to fill in the gaps and reveal what is hidden. True, it was certainly a vigorous sadness and equally true that a glimmer of hope would soon appear in her eyes.
“This can’t go on,” she murmured, coming back into the room.
At that very moment, a carriage pulled up at the front door. A lady stepped out, the doorbell sounded, a houseboy went down to open the gate, and Dona Maria dos Anjos came up the steps. When the visitor was announced, Dona Benedita dropped her pen in agitation; she hurriedly got dressed, put on her shoes, and went into the drawing room.