The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis by Machado De Assis
“Just you wait,” he thought to himself one day, “I’ll run away and never come back.”
But he stayed; chained and shackled there by Dona Severina’s arms. He had never seen such fresh, pretty arms. His upbringing would not allow him to look at them directly; at first it seems he even averted his eyes in embarrassment. Little by little, though, he did begin to look, especially when he realized that those arms were always unencumbered by sleeves, and thus he gradually began to discover, contemplate, and love them. By the end of three weeks they had become, spiritually speaking, the tent where he laid his weary head. He put up with the hard slog of mundane work, the melancholy of his solitude and silence, his boss’s rudeness, for the reward of seeing, three times a day, that stupendous pair of arms.
The very same evening, as night fell and Inácio was stretching out in his hammock (for there was no other bed for him), Dona Severina, in the front room, was going over the episode at dinner and, for the first time, began to suspect something. She quickly rejected the idea—he was a child, for goodness’ sake! But some ideas are like insistent flies: however often we brush them away, they still return to pester us. A child? He was fifteen years old; and she noted that between the lad’s nose and lip were the fuzzy beginnings of a mustache. Was it so surprising that he had begun to fall in love? Was she not, after all, pretty? She did not reject this second observation, but rather cherished and embraced it. She recalled his listless demeanor, his lapses of concentration, his habit of staring into the middle distance—such small things, but symptoms nonetheless. Yes, she concluded, he must be in love.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked the attorney after several minutes’ silence, as he lay on the sofa.
“Nothing,” she replied.
“Nothing? Everyone in this house seems half asleep! Well, just you wait; I know a good cure for sleepyheads . . .”
And on he went, in the same angry tone, firing off threats that he was quite incapable of carrying out, for he was more boorish than bad. Dona Severina interrupted several times to tell him he was mistaken, that she hadn’t been sleeping, but rather thinking about Fortunata, her godson’s mother. They hadn’t been to see her since Christmas; perhaps one of these evenings they should pay her a visit. Borges retorted that he was tired, that he’d been working like a black, that he wasn’t in the mood for social chitchat, and then launched into a tirade against the mother, the father, and the godson, who at ten years of age still wasn’t at school! By that age, he, Borges, could already read, write, and do his sums; not very well, of course, but still. Ten years old! Well, it was sure to end badly: he’d be picked up off the streets and marched off to war, that’s what would happen. A soldier’s billet would sort him out, one way or another.
Dona Severina tried to assuage him with excuses: the mother’s poverty, the father’s string of misfortunes. She caressed her husband, tentatively, for fear of irritating him further. It was now completely dark, and she heard the tlic of the streetlamp as the gas was lit, and saw its glow reflected in the windows of the house across the street. Borges, tired after his long day (for he really was a prodigiously hard worker), let his eyes close and drifted off to sleep, leaving her alone in the room, in the dark, alone with herself and this new discovery.
Everything seemed to tell her it was true; but this truth, once she had gotten over the initial shock, brought with it a moral dilemma she could only recognize by its effects, since she had no means of identifying exactly what it was. She could make no sense of herself, nor regain her equilibrium, and she even thought of telling the attorney everything so that he would send the young whippersnapper packing. But what was “everything”? Here she paused: in reality there was nothing but supposition, coincidence, and quite possibly delusion. No, not delusion. She began to piece together all the vague clues in the boy’s behavior: his awkwardness, his absentmindedness, and rejected the idea that she might be mistaken. But shortly afterward (ah, capricious nature!), reflecting that it would be wrong to make groundless accusations, she admitted that she was perhaps fooling herself after all. Her sole aim, of course, was to watch the young man more closely and ascertain the true state of affairs.
That same evening, Dona Severina surreptitiously studied Inácio’s every look and gesture. She could find nothing, because teatime was very short, and the boy scarcely raised his eyes from his cup. The next day she was able to observe him more closely, and even more so in the days that followed. She realized that, yes, she was both loved and revered—an adolescent and virginal love constrained by social proprieties and by a feeling of inferiority that prevented the young man from even acknowledging it to himself. Dona Severina saw that she need fear no impertinence on his part, and decided it was best to say nothing to her husband; she would be sparing both him and the poor child any unpleasantness. By now she was persuaded that he was indeed a child, and resolved to treat him just as coolly as before, or even more so. And so she did; Inácio began to notice that she avoided his looks and spoke sharply to him, almost as sharply as Borges himself. It’s true that, on other occasions, her tone of voice was soft, even tender, very tender; in the same way, her gaze, generally so elusive, wandered so much around the room that, for a moment’s respite, it would occasionally come to rest upon his head; but such moments were only fleeting.
“I’ve got to leave,” he would say to himself in the street, just as he had in the early days.
He would arrive back at the house, though, and he wouldn’t leave. Dona Severina’s arms were a parenthesis in the long, tedious sentence of the life he was leading and this interpolated clause contained a profound and original idea, invented by Heaven solely for him. So he stayed and carried on as before. Finally, however, he did have to leave, never to return; here’s the how and why.
For several days, Dona Severina had been treating him kindly. The severe tone had vanished from her voice, and now there was more than just softness, there was genuine care and affection. One day, she warned him to keep away from drafts, another day, she told him not to drink cold water after hot coffee—the advice, thoughts, and concerns of a friend and mother, all of which threw Inácio into an even greater state of confusion and consternation. He grew so confident, however, that he actually laughed at the table, something he had never done before. This time the attorney did not scold him, because it was the attorney himself who was telling a funny story, and no one punishes an appreciative audience. It was then that Dona Severina noticed that the young lad’s lips, attractive when he was silent, were no less so when he laughed.
Inácio’s turmoil grew and grew, and he could neither calm himself nor understand what was going on. He felt uncomfortable wherever he was. He would wake up at night thinking about Dona Severina. When out on his errands, he became even more likely to take a wrong turn or knock on the wrong door, and every woman he saw, from near or far, reminded him of her. He always felt a certain, occasionally intense, excitement when he returned from work and found her standing at the top of the stairs, peering down through the wooden banisters, as if she had rushed to see who it was.
One Sunday—a Sunday he would never forget—Inácio was alone in his room, at the window, looking out to sea, which spoke to him in the same obscure new language as Dona Severina. He was amusing himself watching the seagulls as they made wide circles in the air, or hovered above the water, or simply fluttered on the breeze. It was a magnificent day, not merely a Christian Sabbath, but an immense, universal Sabbath.
Inácio spent all his Sundays there in his room, either at the window or rereading one of the three cheap, slender books he had brought with him from home, stories of times gone by, purchased for a penny under the arches on Largo do Paço. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. He was tired; he had slept badly the night before, after having walked a lot the previous day. He stretched out in the hammock, picked up one of the books—Princess Magalona—and began to read. He could never understand why all the heroines in these old stories had the same face and figure
It is certain, however, that Dona Severina could not have emerged from the wall, even had there been a door or a crack in it, for at that very moment she was in the front room listening to the attorney’s footsteps going down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, she went to the window to watch him leave the house, only withdrawing once he had disappeared into the distance, on his way to Rua das Mangueiras. Then she came back into the room and sat on the sofa. She seemed out of sorts, restless, almost manic; she stood up, went over to the sideboard, picked up a jug only to set it back down in the same place; then she walked to the door, paused, and turned back, for no apparent reason. She sat down again for five or ten minutes. Suddenly she remembered that Inácio had eaten very little at breakfast and had looked rather downcast; she wondered if he might be ill, perhaps even gravely ill.
She left the parlor and went straight along the hallway to the young man’s bedroom. The door was wide open. Dona Severina stopped, peered in, and saw him lying in the hammock, asleep, one arm hanging loose and his book lying on the floor. His head was tilted slightly toward the door, so she could see his closed eyes, his tousled hair, and a wide, blissful grin on his face.
Dona Severina felt her heart pounding furiously, and drew back. The previous night she had dreamt of him; perhaps now he was dreaming of her. Ever since dawn, the lad’s face had danced before her eyes like a devilish temptation. She took a further step back, then returned, and looked at him for two, three, five minutes or more. Sleep seemed to accentuate Inácio’s youth, giving it an almost feminine, childlike expression. “A child!” she said to herself, in that wordless language we all carry around inside us. And this idea slowed her racing blood and somewhat calmed her turbulent senses.
“A child!”
She gazed at him unhurriedly, until she had had her fill: his head tilted to one side, one arm hanging loose; but, at the same time as she found him childlike, she also found him handsome, much more so than when he was awake; one of these notions either corrected or corrupted the other. Suddenly she jumped back in fear: she had heard a sound close by, in the linen closet. She went to investigate: a cat had knocked a bowl onto the floor. Creeping back to spy on Inácio, she saw that he was still sleeping soundly. He was certainly a deep sleeper! The noise that had made her jump out of her skin hadn’t even caused him to stir. She stood there and watched him sleep—to sleep, perchance to dream.
Ah, if only we could see other people’s dreams! Dona Severina would have seen herself in the boy’s imagination; she would have seen herself standing by the hammock, smiling and quite still, then leaning toward him, taking his hands, raising them to her chest, and folding them in her arms, those stupendous arms. Even thus, in love with her arms, Inácio could still hear her words, which were beautiful, warm, and above all new—or, rather, they belonged to some language he did not know, although he understood it well enough. Two, three, and even four times, the figure faded only to return, swooping in from the sea or from up among the seagulls, or sailing down the hallway with her usual sturdy elegance. And each time she returned, she would lean toward him, take his hands once again, and fold them in her arms, until, leaning closer, much closer, she pursed her lips and kissed him gently on the mouth.
Here the dream coincided with reality, and the same mouths united both in his imagination and outside it. The difference is that the vision did not draw back, whereas the real person had no sooner kissed him than she fled to the door, ashamed and afraid. She went back to the front room, shocked at what she had done and staring blankly into space. Straining her ears, retracing her steps down the hallway, she listened for any sound of him waking, and it took quite some time before her fears subsided. The child really did sleep like a log; nothing would open his eyes, neither the nearby sound of things breaking nor real-life kisses. But while her fears subsided, her shame lingered and grew. Dona Severina could not believe what she had done; it seems she had swathed her desires in the notion that this was an adoring child lying blameless and unconscious there before her; and, half mother, half friend, she had leaned over and kissed him. Be that as it may, she felt confused, cross, and annoyed with herself and with him. The fear that he might have been feigning sleep troubled her soul and sent shivers down her spine.
In fact, he carried on sleeping for a long time and only awoke for dinner. He sat down gaily at the table. Although Dona Severina was as tight-lipped and stern as ever, and the attorney just as abrasive, neither the harshness of one nor the severity of the other could dispel the charming vision he still carried inside his head, or dull the sensation of that kiss. He didn’t notice that Dona Severina was wearing a shawl covering her arms; he noticed later, on Monday, and then again on Tuesday, and every day until Saturday, which was the day on which Borges sent to tell the boy’s father that he couldn’t keep him on any longer. He did not act in anger, though, for he treated Inácio relatively well and even said to him as he left:
“If you ever need me for anything, you know where I am.”
“Yes, sir. And Senhora Dona Severina . . . ?”
“She’s up in her room, with a very bad headache. Come back tomorrow or the day after to say goodbye to her.”
Inácio left, not understanding a thing. He didn’t understand his dismissal, or Dona Severina’s complete change of attitude, or the shawl, or any of it. She had seemed so contented! She had spoken to him so kindly! How, then, so suddenly . . . ? He thought and thought, and ended up imagining that some indiscreet look on his part, some thoughtless act, had offended her; yes, that must be it, and that would explain her scowling face and the shawl covering her lovely, lovely arms . . . Well, never mind; he still had his dream to savor. And down through the years, despite other love affairs, more real and lasting, he never felt anything that could match the sensation of that Sunday, in Rua da Lapa, when he was fifteen years old. He even sometimes exclaims, not knowing how wrong he is:
“And it was all a dream! Just a dream!”
FAME
“OH! SO YOU’RE PESTANA? said Sinhazinha Mota, raising her hands in surprise and admiration. And then, correcting her over-familiar tone, she quickly followed this up with: “You must forgive me for being so forward, but . . . is it really you?”
Embarrassed and annoyed, Pestana replied that yes, it was indeed him. He had just left the piano, mopping his brow with his handkerchief, and had nearly reached the window, when the young lady stopped him. It was not a ball, just an intimate gathering for a handful of guests, no more than twenty, all told, who had come to dine with the Widow Camargo at Rua do Areal on the occasion of her birthday, November 5, 1875. Such a kind and cheerful widow! She loved to laugh and have fun, even though she had just reached the fine old age of sixty; indeed this turned out to be the last time she did laugh and have fun, for she died during the first few days of 1876. Yes, such a kind and cheerful widow! Such spirit and enthusiasm: no sooner had they finished dinner than she launched into organizing the dances, asking Pestana to play a quadrille! She scarcely needed to finish her request, for Pestana bowed graciously and hastened to the piano. After the quadrille, she gave him barely time to draw breath before she bustled over once again to ask a very particular favor.
“Just say the word, madam.”
“Would you play that polka of yours, Keep Your Hands to Yourself, Mister?”
Pestana grimaced, then, quickly disguising his displeasure, gave a stiff, silent bow, and returned, unenthusiastically, to the piano. On hearing the first few bars, a new wave of gaiety swept the room, the gentlemen rushed over to the ladies, and the pairs launched furiously into the latest polka. It was absolutely the latest thing,
Sinhazinha Mota had not for one moment thought that the Pestana she had seen at the dining table and then at the piano, with his snuff-brown frock coat and long black curly hair, his somewhat wary eyes and smoothly shaven chin, could possibly be the composer Pestana; a friend had only told her this when Pestana got up from the piano after finishing the polka. Hence her admiring question. As we have seen, he responded with some embarrassment and annoyance. Unperturbed, Sinhazinha Mota and her friend heaped so many extravagant compliments upon him that even the most humble of vanities would have been pleased. Pestana, however, received their words with growing annoyance until, pleading a terrible headache, he asked to be excused. Neither the young ladies nor his hostess could persuade him to stay. He was offered homemade remedies and a little rest, but would have none of it; he insisted on leaving, and he left.