worse. With time I became hardened, I no longer heeded anything; I was
an ignoramus, a camel, a bumpkin, an idiot, a loggerhead--I was
everything! It must further be understood that I alone was favored with
these pretty names. He had no relatives; there had been a nephew, but
he had died of consumption. As to friends, those who came now and then
to flatter him and indulge his whims made him but a short visit, five
or ten minutes at the most. I alone was always present to receive his
dictionary of insults. More than once I resolved to leave him; but as
the vicar would exhort me not to abandon the colonel I always yielded
in the end.
Not only were our relations becoming very much strained, but I was in a
hurry to get back to Rio de Janeiro. At forty-two years of age one does
not easily accustom himself to perpetual seclusion with a brutal,
snarling old invalid, in the depths of a remote village. Just to give
you an idea of my isolation, let it suffice to inform you that I didn't
even read the newspapers; outside of some more or less important piece
of news that was brought to the colonel, I knew nothing of what was
doing in the world. I therefore yearned to get back to Rio at the first
opportunity, even at the cost of breaking with the vicar. And I may as
well add--since I am here making a general confession--that having
spent nothing of my wages, I was itching to dissipate them at the
capital.
Very probably my chance was approaching. The colonel was rapidly
getting worse. He made his will, the notary receiving almost as many
insults as did I. The invalid's treatment became more strict; short
intervals of peace and rest became rarer than ever for me. Already I
had lost the meagre measure of pity that made me forget the old
invalid's excesses; within me there seethed a cauldron of aversion and
hatred. At the beginning of the month of August I decided definitely to
leave. The vicar and the doctor, finally accepting my explanations,
asked me but a few days' more service. I gave them a month. At the end
of that time I would depart, whatever might be the condition of the
invalid. The vicar promised to find a substitute for me.
You'll see now what happened. On the evening of the 24th of August the
colonel had a violent attack of anger; he struck me, he called me the
vilest names, he threatened to shoot me; finally he threw in my face a
plate of porridge that was too cold for him. The plate struck the wall
and broke into a thousand fragments.
"You'll pay me for it, you thief!" he bellowed.
For a long time he grumbled. Towards eleven o'clock he gradually fell
asleep. While he slept I took a book out of my pocket, a translation of
an old d'Arlincourt romance which I had found lying about, and began to
read it in his room, at a small distance from his bed. I was to wake
him at midnight to give him his medicine; but, whether it was due to
fatigue or to the influence of the book, I, too, before reaching the
second page, fell asleep. The cries of the colonel awoke me with a
start; in an instant I was up. He, apparently in a delirium, continued
to utter the same cries; finally he seized his water-bottle and threw
it at my face. I could not get out of the way in time; the bottle hit
me in the left cheek, and the pain was so acute that I almost lost
consciousness. With a leap I rushed upon the invalid; I tightened my
hands around his neck; he struggled several moments; I strangled him.
When I beheld that he no longer breathed, I stepped back in terror. I
cried out; but nobody heard me. Then, approaching the bed once more, I
shook him so as to bring him back to life. It was too late; the
aneurism had burst, and the colonel was dead. I went into the adjoining
room, and for two hours I did not dare to return. It is impossible for
me to express all that I felt during that time. It was intense
stupefaction, a kind of vague and vacant delirium. It seemed to me that
I saw faces grinning on the walls; I heard muffled voices. The cries of
the victim, the cries uttered before the struggle and during its wild
moments continued to reverberate within me, and the air, in whatever
direction I turned, seemed to shake with convulsions. Do not imagine
that I am inventing pictures or aiming at verbal style. I swear to you
that I heard distinctly voices that were crying at me: "Murderer;
Murderer!"
All was quiet in the house. The tick-tick of the clock, very even,
slow, dryly metrical, increased the silence and solitude. I put my ear
to the door of the room, in hope of hearing a groan, a word, an insult,
anything that would be a sign of life, that might bring back peace to
my conscience; I was ready to let myself be struck ten, twenty, a
hundred times, by the colonel's hand. But, nothing--all was silent. I
began to pace the room aimlessly; I sat down, I brought my hands
despairingly to my head; I repented ever having come to the place.
"Cursed be the hour in which I ever accepted such a position," I cried.
And I flamed with resentment against the priest of Nichteroy, against
the doctor, the vicar--against all those who had procured the place for
me and forced me to remain there so long. They, too, I convinced
myself, were accomplices in my crime.
As the silence finally terrified me, I opened a window, in the hope of
hearing at least the murmuring of the wind. But no wind was blowing.
The night was peaceful. The stars were sparkling with the indifference
of those who remove their hats before a passing funeral procession and
continue to speak of other things. I remained at the window for some
time, my elbows on the sill, my gaze seeking to penetrate the night,
forcing myself to make a mental summary of my life so that I might
escape the present agony. I believe it was only then that I thought
clearly about the penalty of my crime. I saw myself already being
accused and threatened with dire punishment. From this moment fear
complicated my feeling of remorse. I felt my hair stand on end. A few
minutes later I saw three or four human shapes spying at me from the
terrace, where they seemed to be waiting in ambush; I withdrew; the
shapes vanished into the air; it had been an hallucination.
Before daybreak I bandaged the wounds that I had received in the face.
Then only did I pluck up enough courage to return to the other room.
Twice I started, only to turn back; but it must be done, so I entered.
Even then, I did not at first go to the bed. My legs shook, my heart
pounded. I thought of flight; but that would have been a confession of
the crime.... It was on the contrary very important for me to hide all
traces of it. I approached the bed. I looked at the corpse, with its
widely distended eyes and its mouth gaping, as if uttering the eternal
reproach of the centuries: "Cain, what hast thou done with thy
brother?" I discovered on the neck the marks of my nails; I buttoned
the shirt to the top, and threw the bed-cover up to the dead man's
chin. Then I called a servant and told him that the colonel had died
towards morning; I sent him to notify the vicar and the doctor.
The first idea that came to me was to leave as soon as possible under
the pretext that my brother was ill; and in reality I had received,
several days before, from Rio, a letter telling me that he was not at
all well. But I considered that my immediate departure might arouse
suspicion, and I decided to wait. I laid out the corpse myself, with
the assistance of an old, near-sighted negro. I remained continually in
the room of the dead. I trembled lest something out of the way should
be discovered. I wanted to assure myself that no mistrust could be read
upon the faces of the others; but I did not dare to look any person in
the eye. Everything made me impatient; the going and coming of those
who, on tip-toe crossed the room; their whisperings; the ceremonies and
the prayers of the vicar.... The hour having come, I closed the coffin,
but with trembling hands, so trembling that somebody noticed it and
commented upon it aloud, with pity.
"Poor Procopio! Despite what he has suffered from his master, he is
strongly moved."
It sounded like irony to me. I was anxious to have it all over with. We
went out. Once in the street the passing from semi-obscurity to
daylight dazed me and I staggered. I began to fear that it would no
longer be possible for me to conceal the crime. I kept my eyes steadily
fixed upon the ground and took my place in the procession. When all was
over, I breathed once more. I was at peace with man. But I was not at
peace with my conscience, and the first nights, naturally, I spent in
restlessness and affliction. Need I tell you that I hastened to return
to Rio de Janeiro, and that I dwelt there in terror and suspense,
although far removed from the scene of the crime? I never smiled; I
scarcely spoke; I ate very little; I suffered hallucinations and
nightmares....
"Let the dead rest in peace," they would say to me. "It is out of all
reason to show so much melancholy."
And I was happy to find how people interpreted my symptoms, and praised
the dead man highly, calling him a good soul, surly, in truth, but with
a heart of gold. And as I spoke in such wise, I convinced myself, at
least for a few moments at a time. Another interesting phenomenon was
taking place within me--I tell it to you because you will perhaps make
some useful deduction from it--and that was, although I had very little
religion in me, I had a mass sung for the eternal rest of the colonel
at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. I sent out no invitations to
it, I did not whisper a word of it to anybody; I went there alone. I
knelt during the whole service and made many signs of the cross. I paid
the priest double and distributed alms at the door, all in the name of
the deceased.
I wished to deceive nobody. The proof of this lies in the fact that I
did all this without letting any other know. To complete this incident,
I may add that I never mentioned the colonel without repeating, "May
his soul rest in peace!" And I told several funny anecdotes about him,
some amusing caprices of his ...
About a week after my arrival at Rio I received a letter from the
vicar. He announced that the will of the colonel had been opened and
that I was there designated as his sole heir. Imagine my stupefaction!
I was sure that I had read wrongly; I showed it to my brother, to
friends; they all read the same thing. It was there in black and white,
I was really the sole heir of the colonel. Then I suddenly thought that
this was a trap to catch me, but then I considered that there were
other ways of arresting me, if the crime had been discovered. Moreover,
I knew the vicar's honesty, and I was sure that he would not be a party
to such a plan. I reread the letter five times, ten times, a hundred
times; it was true. I was the colonel's sole heir!
"How much was he worth?" my brother asked me.
"I don't know, but I know that he was very wealthy."
"Really, he's shown that he was a very true friend to you."
"He certainly was--he was...."
Thus, by a strange irony of fate, all the colonel's wealth came into my
hands. At first I thought of refusing the legacy. It seemed odious to
take a sou of that inheritance; it seemed worse than the reward of a
hired assassin. For three days this thought obsessed me; but more and
more I was thrust against this consideration: that my refusal would not
fail to awake suspicion. Finally I settled upon a compromise; I would
accept the inheritance and would distribute it in small sums, secretly.
This was not merely scruple on my part, it was also the desire to
redeem my crime by virtuous deeds; and it seemed the only way to
recover my peace of mind and feel that accounts were straight.
I made hurried preparations and left. As I neared the little village
the sad event returned obstinately to my memory. Everything about the
place, as I looked at it once again, suggested tragic deeds. At every
turn in the road I seemed to see the ghost of the colonel loom. And
despite myself, I evoked in my imagination his cries, his struggles,
his looks on that horrible night of the crime....
Crime or struggle? Really, it was rather a struggle; I had been
attacked, I had defended myself; and in self-defence.... It had been an
unfortunate struggle, a genuine tragedy. This idea gripped me. And I
reviewed all the abuse he had heaped upon me; I counted the blows, the
names ... It was not the colonel's fault, that I knew well; it was his
affliction that made him so peevish and even wicked. But I pardoned
all, everything!... The worst of it was the end of that fatal night ...
I also considered that in any case the colonel had not long to live.
His days were numbered; did not he himself feel that? Didn't he say
every now and then, "How much longer have I to live? Two weeks, or one,
perhaps less?"
This was not life, it was slow agony, if one may so name the continual
martyrdom of that poor man.... And who knows, who can say that the
struggle and his death were not simply a coincidence? That was after
all quite possible, it was even most probable; careful weighing of the
matter showed that it couldn't have been otherwise. At length this
idea, too, engraved itself upon my mind....
Something tugged at my heart as I entered the village; I wanted to run
back; but I dominated my emotions and I pressed forward. I was received
with a shower of congratulations. The vicar communicated to me the
particulars of the will, enumerated the pious gifts, and, as he spoke,
praised the Christian forbearance and the faithfulness which I had
shown in my care of the deceased, who, despite his temper and
brutality, had so well demonstrated his gratitude.
"Certainly," I said, looking nervously around.
I was astounded. Everybody praised my conduct. Such patience, such
devotion. The first formalities of the inventory detained me for a
while; I chose a solicitor; things followed their course in regular
fashion. During this time there was much talk of the colonel. People
came and told me tales about him, but without observing the priest's
moderation. I defended the memory of the colonel. I recalled his good
qualities, his virtues; had he not been austere?...
"Austere!" they would interrupt. "Nonsense! He is dead, and it's all
over now. But he was a regular demon!"
And they would cite incidents and relate the colonel's perversities,
some of which were nothing less than extraordinary.
Need I confess it? At first I listened to all this talk with great
curiosity; then, a queer pleasure penetrated my heart, a pleasure from
which, sincerely, I tried to escape. And I continued to defend the
colonel; I explained him, I attributed much of the fault-finding to
local animosity; I admitted, yes, I admitted that he had been a trifle
exacting, somewhat violent....
"Somewhat! Why he was as furious as a snake!" exclaimed the barber.
And all--the collector, the apothecary, the clerk--all were of the same
opinion. And they would start to relate other anecdotes. They reviewed
the entire life of the deceased. The old folks took particular delight
in recalling the cruelties of his youth. And that queer pleasure,
intimate, mute, insidious, grew within me--a sort of moral tape-worm
whose coils I tore out in vain, for they would immediately form again
and take firmer hold than ever.
The formalities of the inventory afforded me a little relief; moreover,
public opinion was so unanimously unfavorable to the colonel that
little by little the place lost the lugubrious aspect that had at first
struck me. At last I entered into possession of the legacy, which I
converted into land-titles and cash.
Several months had elapsed, and the idea of distributing the
inheritance in charity and pious donations was by no means so strong as
it had at first been; it even seemed to me that this would be sheer
affectation. I revised my initial plan; I gave away several
insignificant sums to the poor; I presented the village church with a
few new ornaments; I gave several thousand francs to the Sacred House
of Mercy, etc. I did not forget to erect a monument upon the colonel's
grave--a very simple monument, all marble, the work of a Neapolitan
sculptor who remained at Rio until 1866, and who has since died, I
believe, in Paraguay.
Years have gone by. My memory has become vague and unreliable.
Sometimes I think of the colonel, but without feeling again the terrors
of those early days. All the doctors to whom I have described his
afflictions have been unanimous as regards the inevitable end in store
for the invalid, and were indeed surprised that he should so long have
resisted. It is just possible that I may have involuntarily exaggerated
the description of his various symptoms; but the truth is that he was
sure of sudden death, even had this fatality not occurred....
Good-bye, my dear sir. If you deem these notes not totally devoid of
value reward me for them with a marble tomb, and place there for my
epitaph this variant which I have made of the divine sermon on the
mount:
"Blessed are they who possess, for they shall be consoled."
THE FORTUNE-TELLER
By Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis
Hamlet observes to Horatio that there are more things in heaven and
earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy. This was the selfsame
explanation that was given by beautiful Rita to her lover, Camillo, on
a certain Friday of November, 1869, when Camillo laughed at her for
having gone, the previous evening, to consult a fortune-teller. The
only difference is that she made her explanation in other words.
"Laugh, laugh. That's just like you men; you don't believe in anything.
Well, let me tell you, I went there and she guessed the reason for my
coming before I ever spoke a word. Scarcely had she begun to lay out
the cards when she said to me: 'The lady likes a certain person ...' I
confessed that it was so, and then she continued to rearrange the cards
in various combinations, finally telling me that I was afraid you would
forget me, but that there were no grounds for my fear."
"She was wrong!" interrupted Camillo with a laugh.
"Don't say that, Camillo. If you only realized in what anguish I went
there, all on account of you. You know. I've told you before. Don't
laugh at me; don't poke fun at me...."
Camillo seized her hands and gazed into her eyes earnestly and long. He
swore that he loved her ever so much, that her fears were childish; in
any case, should she ever harbor a fear, the best fortune-teller to
consult was he himself. Then he reproved her, saying that it was
imprudent to visit such houses. Villela might learn of it, and then ...
"Impossible! I was exceedingly careful when I entered the place."
"Where is the house?"
"Near here. On Guarda-Velha Street. Nobody was passing by at the time.
Rest easy. I'm not a fool."
Camillo laughed again.
"Do you really believe in such things?" he asked.
It was at this point that she translated Hamlet into every-day speech,
assuring her lover that there was many a true, mysterious thing in this
world. If he was skeptical, let him have patience. One thing, however,
was certain: the card reader had guessed everything. What more could he
desire? The best proof was that at this moment she was at ease and
content.
He was about to speak, but he restrained himself. He did not wish to
destroy her illusions. He, too, when a child, and even later, had been
superstitious, filled with an arsenal of beliefs which his mother had
instilled, and which had disappeared by the time he reached twenty. The
day on which he rid himself of all this parasitic vegetation, leaving
behind only the trunk of religion, he wrapped his superstition and his
religion (which had both been inculcated by his mother) in the same
doubt, and soon arrived at a single, total negation. Camillo believed
in nothing. Why? He could not have answered; he had not a solitary
reason; he was content simply to deny everything. But I express myself
ill, for to deny is in a sense to affirm, and he did not formulate his
unbelief. Before the great mystery he simply shrugged his shoulders and
went on.
The lovers parted in good spirits, he more happy than she. Rita was
sure that she was loved; but Camillo was not only sure that she loved
him, but saw how she trembled for him and even took risks, running to
fortune-tellers. However much he had reproved her for this, he could
not help feeling flattered by it. Their secret meeting-place was in the
old Barbonos street at the home of a woman that came from Rita's
province. Rita went off through Mangueiras street, in the direction of
Botafogo, where she resided; Camillo entered Guarda-Velha street,
keeping his eye open, as he passed, for the home of the card reader.
Villela, Camillo and Rita: three names, one adventure and no
explanation of how it all began. Let us proceed to explain. The first
two were friends since earliest childhood. Villela had entered the
magistracy. Camillo found employment with the government, against the
will of his father, who desired him to embrace the medical profession.
But his father had died, and Camillo preferred to be nothing at all,
until his mother had procured him a departmental position. At the
beginning of the year 1869 Villela returned from the interior, where he
had married a silly beauty; he abandoned the magistracy and came hither
to open a lawyer's office. Camillo had secured a house for him near
Botafogo and had welcomed him home.
"Is this the gentleman?" exclaimed Rita, offering Camillo her hand.
"You can't imagine how highly my husband thinks of you. He was always
talking about you."
Camillo and Villela looked at each other tenderly. They were true
friends. Afterwards, Camillo confessed to himself that Villela's wife
did not at all belie the enthusiastic letters her husband had written
to him. Really, she was most prepossessing, lively in her movements,
her eyes burning, her mouth plastic and piquantly inquiring. Rita was a
trifle older than both the men: she was thirty, Villela twenty-nine and
Camillo twenty-six. The grave bearing of Villela gave him the
appearance of being much older than his wife, while Camillo was but a
child in moral and practical life.... He possessed neither experience
nor intuition.
The three became closely bound. Propinquity bred intimacy. Shortly
afterwards Camillo's mother died, and in this catastrophe, for such it
was, the other two showed themselves to be genuine friends of his.
Villela took charge of the interment, of the church services and the
settlement of the affairs of the deceased; Rita dispensed consolation,
and none could do it better.
Just how this intimacy between Camillo and Rita grew to love he never
knew. The truth is that he enjoyed passing the hours at her side; she
was his spiritual nurse, almost a sister,--but most of all she was a
woman, and beautiful. The aroma of femininity: this is what he yearned
for in her, and about her, seeking to incorporate it into himself. They
read the same books, they went together to the theatre or for walks. He
taught her cards and chess, and they played of nights;--she badly,--he,
to make himself agreeable, but little less badly. Thus much, as far as
external things are concerned. And now came personal intimacies, the
timorous eyes of Rita, that so often sought his own, consulting them
before they questioned those of her own husband,--the touches of cold
hands, and unwonted communion. On one of his birthdays he received from
Villela a costly cane, and from Rita, a hastily pencilled, ordinary
note expressing good wishes. It was then that he learned to read within
his own heart; he could not tear his eyes away from the missive.
Commonplace words, it is true; but there are sublime commonplaces,--or
at least, delightful ones. The old chaise in which for the first time
you rode with your beloved, snuggled together, is as good as the
chariot of Apollo. Such is man, and such are the circumstances that
surround him.
Camillo sincerely wished to flee the situation, but it was already
beyond his power. Rita, like a serpent, was charming him, winding her
coils about him; she was crushing his bones, darting her venomous fangs
into his lips. He was helpless, overcome. Vexation, fear, remorse,
desire,--all this he felt, in a strange confusion. But the battle was
short and the victory deliriously intoxicating. Farewell, all scruple!
The shoe now fitted snugly enough upon the foot, and there they were
both, launched upon the high road, arm in arm, joyfully treading the
grass and the gravel, without suffering anything more than lonesomeness
when they were away from each other. As to Villela, his confidence in
his wife and his esteem for his friend continued the same as before.