The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis by Machado De Assis
The Alexandrians reported that the mice in the city celebrated this distressing and painful event with dancing and feasts, to which they invited several dogs, turtledoves, peacocks, and other animals threatened with the same fate. They also say that none of the invited guests accepted the invitation, following the advice of a dog who told them glumly: “The time will come when the same thing will happen to us.” To which a mouse replied: “But until then, let’s be merry!”
COUSINS FROM SAPUCAIA!
THERE ARE IN LIFE those fleeting occasions when chance cruelly inflicts on us two or three country cousins. At other times, however, these “cousins from Sapucaia,” as I call them, can be more of a blessing than a curse.
It all began at the door of a church. I was waiting while my cousins Claudina and Rosa made the sign of the cross with the holy water, before escorting them back to our house, where they were staying. They had come from Sapucaia for the carnival, and lingered on in Rio for two months. It was I who accompanied them to mass, the theater, Rua do Ouvidor, and everywhere else, because my mother’s rheumatism meant that she could barely move around the house, and they were incapable of going anywhere alone. Sapucaia was where we all hailed from. Although its members were now scattered hither and yon, it was there that the family tree had first taken root. My uncle, José Ribeiro—my cousins’ father—was the only one of five siblings who still lived there, farming the land and playing his part in local politics. I had come to Rio at an early age, and went on to study and take my law degree in São Paulo. I returned only once to Sapucaia, to contest an election, which I lost.
Strictly speaking, none of this information is necessary for an understanding of my adventure, but it is a way of saying something before getting into the story itself, for which I can find no entrance either large or small. So the best thing is to slacken the reins on my pen and let it find its own way in. There must be one somewhere; it all depends on the circumstances, a rule that applies just as much to writing style as to life itself; word follows word, one idea leads to another, and so a book, a government, or a revolution is made; some even say that this is how nature brought its various species into being.
Anyway, holy water and church door. It was the Church of São José. Mass had just finished; Claudina and Rosa each made the sign of the cross on their forehead with their thumb dipped in the holy water and ungloved specifically for this purpose. Then they adjusted their lace shawls while I, in the doorway, admired the other ladies as they left. Suddenly I felt a shiver of excitement and peered out into the street, even taking a step or two in that direction.
“What is it, cousin?”
“Nothing; nothing at all.”
It was a lady who had passed right by the church, slowly, head bowed, leaning on her little parasol, making her way up Rua da Misericórdia. To explain my agitation, I should say that this was the second time I had seen her. The first time was at the races two months earlier, with a man who, by all appearances, was her husband, but could just as well have been her father. She was quite a sight then, dressed in scarlet with lavish trimmings and a pair of outsized earrings, but her eyes and mouth made up for everything else. We flirted outrageously. I would not be consigning my soul to the flames if I said that I left there madly in love, since it is the honest truth. I came away feeling quite giddy, but also disappointed, for I lost sight of her in the crowd. I never saw her again, and no one could tell me who she was.
You can imagine my dismay when fortune brought her my way again, only for the accidental presence of some country cousins to prevent me from throwing my arms around her. It will not be difficult for you to imagine, because these “cousins from Sapucaia” come in many different forms, and the reader will surely have encountered them, one way or another. Sometimes they take on the guise of that well-informed gentleman droning on about the latest government crisis, enumerating every possible aspect both obvious and obscure, every disagreement whether new or old, every private interest at play, every whiff of conspiracy and scandal. At other times, they clothe themselves in the figure of that eternal citizen who intones in a ponderous, straitlaced manner that there are no laws without morals, nisi lege sine moribus. Others slip on the mask of a poor man’s Marquis de Dangeau, giving meticulous accounts of the ribbons and laces that this, that, or the other lady was wearing to the ball or the theater. And all the while, Opportunity is strolling slowly by, head bowed, leaning on her little parasol; she passes, turns the corner, and adieu . . . The government’s rotten to the core; silks and satins; nisi lege sine moribus . . .
I was on the point of telling my cousins to go ahead without me—we lived on Rua do Carmo and it wasn’t far—but I thought better of it. Once we were out in the street, I also considered leaving my cousins to wait for me at the church, to see if I could seize Opportunity before it slipped away. I think I even paused for a moment, then rejected this notion, too, and carried on walking.
We continued in the opposite direction of the mystery woman. I turned and looked back many times, until she finally disappeared around a bend, her eyes fixed on the ground, like someone thinking, daydreaming, or waiting for an assignation. It would be no lie to say that this last thought made me jealous. I am exclusive and proprietary about these things; I would make a poor lover of married women. It matters little that between the lady and me there had been but a fleeting dalliance of a few hours; since my heart was set on her, sharing the spoils would be unbearable. I am also an imaginative fellow; I soon dreamed up an adventure and an adventurer; I succumbed to the morbid pleasure of tormenting myself, for no good reason. My cousins walked ahead of me, and spoke to me from time to time; I replied curtly, if at all, and silently, cordially cursed them.
When we arrived home, I looked at my watch, as if I had something I needed to do; then I said to my cousins to go in and begin lunch. I ran to Rua da Misericórdia. First, I went to the School of Medicine, then retraced my steps to the Chamber of Deputies, this time more slowly, hoping to see her at every turn in the street; but not a sign. It was foolish of me, I know. Even so, I went back up the street once again, because I realized that, since she was walking so very slowly, she would barely have had time to get halfway along the Santa Luzia seafront, unless, of course, she had stopped off somewhere first; and so on I went, up the street and out along the seafront, as far as the Ajuda Convent. I found nothing, absolutely nothing. But I didn’t lose hope; I turned tail and came back, alternating between quick and slow, depending on whether or not I thought it possible to catch up with her, or, rather, to give her time to emerge from wherever she might be lurking. I had conjured her up so vividly in my imagination that my whole body trembled, as if she really might appear at any moment. I understood then how madmen must feel.
Still nothing. I came back down the street without finding the slightest trace of my mystery lady. Happy indeed are dogs, who can sniff out their friends! She might be nearby, inside some house, perhaps even her own? I thought of asking someone, but who and how? A baker, leaning against a doorway, was watching me; some women were doing the same, peeping through the hatch in their front doors. Naturally they were suspicious of this passerby, of his slow or hurried gait, his inquisitive gaze, his restless manner. I carried on to the Chamber of Deputies and stopped for about five minutes, not knowing what to do. It was nearly noon. I stood there waiting for another ten minutes, then another five, in the vain hope of seeing her; finally, I gave up and went to have lunch.
I didn’t have lunch at home. I didn’t want to see my blasted cousins, who had stopped me from following the mystery lady. I went to a hotel. I chose a table at the far end of the dining room and sat down with my back to the others; I didn’t want to be seen or spoken to. I began eating whatever was put in front of me. I asked for some newspapers, but I confess that I didn’t pay much attention and scarcely took in three-quarters of what I read. In the middle of a news item or opinion piece, my mind would slip and fall into Rua da Misericórdia, at the door of the church, watching t
The last time this separation of higher and lower faculties occurred, I was already having my coffee, and had a parliamentary speech in front of me. I found myself once more at the church door; I imagined then that my cousins were not with me, and that I was following the lovely lady. This is how lottery losers console themselves; this is how thwarted ambitions are assuaged.
Don’t ask me for details or preliminaries of the encounter. Dreams shun the fine lines and finishing touches of a landscape; they make do with four or five broad, but telling, brushstrokes. My imagination leapfrogged over the difficulties of the opening words, and went straight to Rua do Lavradio or Rua dos Inválidos, to the very home of Adriana. That was her name: Adriana. She hadn’t gone to Rua da Misericórdia with amorous intentions, but to meet someone, a relative or female companion, or perhaps a seamstress. On meeting me, she felt the same stirrings. I wrote to her; she wrote back. Our souls cleaved unto each other, oblivious to the multitude of moral rules and dangers swirling beneath us. Adriana is married; her husband is fifty-two, she is getting on for thirty. She had never been in love, not even with her husband, whom she married out of obedience to her family. I taught her love and betrayal at the same time; that is what she told me in the little cottage I rented outside the city, just for the two us.
I listen to her, bewitched. I wasn’t mistaken; she is the fiery, passionate woman her eyes—those large, doe eyes, like Juno’s—were telling me she was. She lives for me and me alone. We write each other every day, and even so, each time we meet in our little love nest, it is as if a whole century had gone by. I even think her heart has taught me something, despite its inexperience, or perhaps because of it. In such matters practice makes imperfect, and true wisdom lies in ignorance. Adriana hides neither her happiness nor her tears; she writes what she thinks and says what she feels; she shows me that we are not two but one, one universal being, for whom God created the sun and the flowers, paper and ink, the daily post and closed carriages.
While I was imagining all this, I must have finished drinking my coffee; I remember the waiter came to the table and took away the cup and the sugar bowl. I don’t know if I asked him for a light; he probably saw me with the cigar in my hand and brought me matches.
I can’t swear to it, but I think I lit the cigar, because, a moment later, through a veil of smoke, I could see my beautiful Adriana’s sweet, passionate head as she lay languidly on a sofa. I am kneeling, listening to her recounting the latest quarrel with her husband, who already suspects something; she’s always going out, becomes distracted or absorbed, seems happy or sad for no reason. He has started issuing threats. What kind of threats? I tell her that it would be better to leave him before he goes too far, that she should come and live with me, openly, as man and wife. Adriana listens to me pensively, like Eve bewitched by the devil, whispering in her ear what her heart is already telling her. Her fingers are stroking my hair.
“Yes, yes, my love!”
She came the next day, on her own, without husband, society, or scruples, completely alone, and we went away to live together. Neither blatantly nor secretly. We thought of ourselves as foreigners and in reality that is what we were, for we spoke a language no one had ever spoken or heard before. Every other love affair, for centuries past, had been a complete counterfeit; ours was the first genuine edition. For the first time, the divine manuscript had been printed, a thick volume we divided into as many chapters and paragraphs as there were hours in the day or days in the week. The style was woven out of sunshine and music, the language composed from the flowers of other vocabularies. Everything gentle or vibrant had been extracted by the author to form this single volume—a book without an index, because it was infinite; without margins, so that boredom could not scribble its notes in them; and without a bookmark, because we no longer needed to interrupt our reading and mark the page.
A voice summoned me back to reality. It belonged to a friend who had woken late and come straight out for lunch. Even my dream wasn’t safe from this “cousin from Sapucaia”! Five minutes later, I said goodbye and left the hotel; it was already two o’clock.
It pains me to say that I returned to Rua da Misericórdia, but I must tell all: I went, and found nothing. I returned on the days that followed, with nothing to show for it except wasted time. I resigned myself to giving up my adventure, or waiting for chance to intervene again. My cousins thought I was annoyed about something or else ill, and I said nothing to contradict this view. A week later, they left, and I had no reason to miss them; I shook them off as one would a nasty fever.
The image of my mystery lady remained with me for many weeks. On various occasions I mistook someone in the street for her. I would catch sight of a figure in the distance who looked just like her, and would quicken my step until I caught up and realized my error. I began to find myself ridiculous, but then another moment would come, a shadow in the distance, and my obsession would spring back into life. Eventually other concerns arose, and I thought no more about it.
At the beginning of the following year, I went up to Petrópolis to escape the summer heat. I made the journey with an old friend from university, Oliveira, who had gone on to become a public prosecutor in Minas Gerais, but had lately given up his career upon receiving an inheritance. He was as cheerful as he had been in our student days, but, from time to time, he would fall silent, gazing out from the boat or the carriage with the lethargy of someone salving his soul with a memory, a hope, or a desire. Once we were up in the mountains, I asked him which hotel he was going to; he answered that he was staying in a private house, but didn’t say where and changed the subject. I thought he would visit me the next day, but he didn’t, nor did I run into him anywhere else. Another friend of ours said he had a house somewhere over in the Renânia part of town.
I would have thought no more about this were it not for the news I received some days later. Oliveira had run off with another man’s wife, and taken refuge with her in Petrópolis. They told me the husband’s name, and hers. The woman’s name was Adriana. I confess that, despite the mystery woman’s name being pure invention, I was startled to hear it; could she possibly be the same person? I saw right away that this was asking a great deal of Chance. This poor servant of human affairs already has quite enough to do, pulling together life’s disparate threads; asking him to tie all of them together and give them the same names is to leap from reality into a novel. This is what my common sense told me, and never had it uttered such foolishness so very gravely, for the two women were indeed one and the same.
I saw her three weeks later, when I went to visit Oliveira. He and I had again traveled up to Petrópolis from Rio the day before; halfway there, he had begun to feel unwell; by the time we reached the top, he was feverish. I accompanied him in the carriage as far as his house, but did not go in, because he wanted to spare me any further trouble. But the next day I went to see him, partly out of friendship and partly out of a desire to meet the mystery lady. I saw her and it was indeed her, the one and only, my very own Adriana.
Oliveira soon recovered, and, despite my readiness to visit him, he did not invite me to return to his house, instead coming to see me at my hotel. I respected his motives, but they served only to revive my former obsession. I assumed that, aside from reasons of decorum, he harbored feelings of jealousy, born of love, and that both such sentiments could be proof of the woman’s fine and noble qualities. This in itself was a cause for dismay, but the idea that her passion might be no less than his, and the image of this couple forming one single body and soul, put every envious nerve in my body on edge. All my efforts to set foot inside his house failed; I even spoke to him about the rumor that was circulating, but he simply smiled and changed the subject.
The Petrópolis season ended, but he stayed on. I think he came back down to Rio in July or August. At the end of the year, we happened to bump into each other; I found him somewhat taciturn and preo
One of Oliveira’s neighbors, a friend of ours, told me something that confirmed my suspicions of domestic travails; but it was Oliveira himself who told me everything, one day when I rashly asked him what was wrong and why he seemed so changed.
“What do you think? Imagine I bought a lottery ticket and didn’t even have the good fortune to win nothing. Instead, I won a scorpion.”
I frowned and eyed him inquisitively.
“Ah! if you knew half the things that have befallen me! Do you have time? Let’s go to the Passeio Público.”
We entered the gardens and set off along one of the shady paths. He told me everything. He spent two hours giving me a long litany of miseries. His account revealed two completely incompatible temperaments, united by love or sin, utterly bored with each other, but condemned to hateful coexistence. He couldn’t bear her, and he couldn’t leave her. There was no mutual esteem or respect; any happiness was rare and tainted. In short, a life ruined.