reject it.
AHASVERUS. Now it is you who are raving. Kneel, and let me manacle your
arms. So, 'tis well you will resist no more. Bend this way; now your
legs ...
PROMETHEUS. Have done, have done. It is the passions of earth turning
upon me; but I, who am not a human being, do not know ingratitude. You
will not be spared a jot of your destiny; it will be fulfilled to the
letter. You yourself will be the new Hercules. I, who announced the
glory of the other, now proclaim yours; and you will be no less
generous than he.
AHASVERUS. Are you mad?
PROMETHEUS. The truth unknown to man is the madness of him who
proclaims it. Proceed, and have done.
AHASVERUS. Glory pays nothing, and dies.
PROMETHEUS. This glory will never die. Have done; have done; show the
sharp beak of the eagle where it is to devour my entrails. But hear me
... No, hear nothing; you cannot understand me.
AHASVERUS. Speak; speak.
PROMETHEUS. The ephemeral world cannot understand the world eternal;
but you will be the link between the two.
AHASVERUS. Tell me everything.
PROMETHEUS. I speak nothing; fetter these wrists well, that I shall not
flee,--so that I shall be here on your return. Tell you all? I have
already told you that a new race shall people the earth, formed of the
chosen spirits of the extinct humanity; the multitude of others will
perish. A noble family, all-seeing and powerful, will be the perfect
synthesis of the divine and the human. The times will be others, but
between them and these a link is necessary, and you shall be that link.
AHASVERUS. I?
PROMETHEUS. You yourself; you, the chosen one; you, the King. Yes,
Ahasverus. You shall be King. The Wanderer will find rest. The despised
of men shall rule over mankind.
AHASVERUS. Wily Titan, you are deceiving me ... King,--I?
PROMETHEUS. You, King. Who else, then? The new world needs to be bound
by a tradition, and none can speak of one to the other as you can. Thus
there will be no gap between the two humanities. The perfect will
proceed from the imperfect, and your lips will tell the new world its
origin. You will relate to the new humanity all the ancient good and
evil. And thus will you live anew like the tree whose dead branches are
lopped off, only the flourishing ones being preserved, but here growth
will be eternal.
AHASVERUS. Resplendent vision! I myself?
PROMETHEUS. Your very self.
AHASVERUS. These eyes ... these hands ... a new and better life ...
Glorious vision! Titan, it is just. Just was the punishment; but
equally just is the glorious remission of my sin. Shall I live? I
myself? A new and better life? No, you are jesting with me.
PROMETHEUS. Very well, then; leave me. You will return some day, when
this vast heaven will be open to let the spirits of the new life
descend. You will find me here at peace. Go.
AHASVERUS. Shall I again greet the sun?
PROMETHEUS. The selfsame sun that is about to set. Friend sun, eye of
time, nevermore shall your eyelids close. Gaze upon it, if you can.
AHASVERUS. I cannot.
PROMETHEUS. You will be able to, when the conditions of life shall have
changed. Then your retina will gaze upon the sun without peril, for in
the man of the future will be concentrated all that is best in nature,
energizing or subtle, scintillating or pure.
AHASVERUS. Swear that you are not lying.
PROMETHEUS. You will see whether I lie.
AHASVERUS. Speak, speak on; tell me everything.
PROMETHEUS. The description of life is not worth the sensation of life;
you shall experience it deeply. The bosom of Abraham in your old
Scriptures is nothing but this final, perfect world. There you will
greet David and the prophets. There will you tell to the astounded
listeners, not only the great events of the extinct world, but also the
ills they will never know: sickness, old age, grief, egotism,
hypocrisy, abhorrent vanity, imbecility, and the rest. The soul, like
the earth, will possess an incorruptible tunic.
AHASVERUS. I shall gaze ever on the immense blue sky?
PROMETHEUS. Behold how beautiful it is.
AHASVERUS. As beautiful and serene as eternal justice. Magnificent
heaven, more beautiful than the tents of Caesar. I shall behold you
forever; you will receive my thoughts, as before; you will grant me
clear days, and friendly nights ...
PROMETHEUS. Dawn upon dawn.
AHASVERUS. Ah, speak on, speak on. Tell me everything. Let me unbind
these chains ...
PROMETHEUS. Loosen them, new Hercules, last man of the old world, who
shall be the first of the new. Such is your destiny; neither you nor
I,--nobody can alter it. You go farther than your Moses. From the top
of mount Nebo, at the point of death, he beheld the land of Jericho,
which was to belong to his descendants and the Lord said unto him:
"Thou hast seen with thine eyes, yet shalt not pass beyond." _You_
shall pass beyond, Ahasverus; you shall dwell in Jericho.
AHASVERUS. Place your hand upon my head; look well at me; fill me with
the reality of your prediction; let me breathe a little of the new,
full life ... King, did you say?
PROMETHEUS. The chosen king of a chosen people.
AHASVERUS. It is not too much in recompense for the deep ignominy in
which I have dwelt. Where one life heaped mire, another life will place
a halo. Speak, speak on ... speak on ... (_He continues to dream. The
two eagles draw near._)
FIRST EAGLE. Ay, ay, ay! Alas for this last man; he is dying, yet he
dreams of life.
SECOND EAGLE. Not so much that he hated it as that he loved it so much.
THE VENGEANCE OF FELIX
By José de Medeiros E Albuquerque (1867- )
Member of the Brazilian Academy of Letters
Old Felix had followed his trade of digger in all the quarries that Rio
de Janeiro possessed. He was a sort of Hercules with huge limbs, but
otherwise stupid as a post. His companions had nicknamed him Hardhead
because of his obstinate character. Once an idea had penetrated his
skull it would stick there like a gimlet and the devil himself couldn't
pull it out. Because of this trait there arose quarrels, altercations
on points of the smallest significance, which the man's acquaintances
would purposely bring up, knowing his evil humor. But Felix, despite
his vigorous and sanguine constitution, was by no means quick to anger,
nor immediately responsive to injury; on the contrary he was
exceedingly patient in his vindictiveness. For the longest time he
would ruminate upon his vengeance, most astutely, and he would carry it
out at the moment when he believed himself perfectly secure. Oh! His
ruses were not of very great finesse and required very little talent;
but by dint of considering and reconsidering the case, by dint of
waiting patiently for the propitious opportunity to present itself, he
finally would play some evil trick upon his comrades. So that nobody
liked him.
Felix had married, but his wife did not long survive. Just long enough
to leave him a son and a daughter, who grew up knowing little
restraint, chumming around with all the good-for-nothings of the
vicinity, plaguing all the neighbors, who on their part, were not slow
to punish the rascals. Thus several years went by. The son became a
notorious character, the daughter an impudent, cynical little runabout
who, on certain occasions, would fill their rickety abode with her
chatter about affairs concerning the "man" of so-and-so or
such-and-such. And thus things were going when the old man took it into
his head to fall ill. An excruciating rheumatism attacked both his
legs, rendering him incapable of moving about, and confining him to an
old, lame armchair that was balanced by a complicated arrangement of
old boxes that could never be got to remain steady. The illness became
chronic. The daughter helped out the finances of the house with her
earnings as laundry-woman ... and perhaps by earnings of a different
nature. Anyway, they got along. The old fellow, willy-nilly, spent his
days invariably riveted to his armchair, groaning with pain at the
least movement, swearing, fretting and fuming, despairing of life. And,
since his daughter simply refused from the very beginning to let him
have even a drop of brandy, he was perforce cured of his vice.
Just about this time there happened to them the worst of all possible
adventures. The son, whom the father had not seen for several weeks,
one fine day attacked a peaceful citizen and, with a terrible knife
thrust in the stomach, despatched him to a better world; as to which
event circumstances seemed so contrary that the son allowed himself to
be arrested.
The old man was in the habit of reading his gazette religiously, from
the first line to the last; thus he learned the news. And it was
through the same newspaper that he followed the trial and learned of
his son's conviction. This made him furious, not so much because of the
sentence as because of a special circumstance. The policeman who had
arrested his son was--just think of it!--Bernardo,--yes, Bernardo, his
own neighbor--the same chap who would greet him daily with the ironic
words: "How are things, Felix old boy? And when will you be ready for a
waltz?"
Even on the day of imprisonment and during those that followed Bernardo
had permitted himself these witty remarks.
Bernardo was a _cabra_ of Bahai, a pretentious mulatto whose enormous
head of hair, carefully parted in the middle into two flourishing
masses, was kept so only through the services of odorous pomade that
cost four sous a pot. He had been, in his day, a dishonest political
henchman, well-known for his exploits; then, supported by the liberal
leader whose election he had worked for, he escaped prison and entered
the police service. At that time police officers were called "bats",--a
sobriquet that troubled Bernardo very little. And it had been he--what
anger flashed in old Felix's eyes as he thought of it!--he, whose past
activities would well bear examination, he who had arrested Felix's
son!...
From that moment one preoccupation alone filled Felix's hours--vengeance!
This hatred dominated his existence and became the only power that
could vanquish the ever-growing misery of his broken-down body. The
mere thought that he could not grow well, while the _cabra_ would daily
continue to live in insolent impunity, was enough to give him
convulsions of rage; he would foam at the mouth, gnash his teeth and,
in that obtuse brain of his, concoct scheme upon scheme of vengeance,
almost all of them impracticable, for he was chained to the spot in
stupid impotence.
At times he would wish to call Bernardo and with thunderous violence
pour torrents of insult upon his head. But what end would that serve?
Felix's treacherous, cowardous nature counselled him to have prudence.
So, on the first days after the arrest, when the mulatto would go by,
the old man feigned slumber. Then, in the continuing uncertainty as to
what method of vengeance to pursue, and in order not to let his hatred
betray itself, he spoke to the policeman as if nothing had happened.
Nevertheless there was one thing that puzzled him greatly: his daughter
had said nothing to him about the entire affair. Did she know nothing
about it? It was almost impossible that the mulatto, with his
chatterbox habits, had not spoken of the matter. Had his daughter
feared to shock him with the news? This was all the less probable since
she had never had any particular love for him. Scarcely did a day pass
that she did not call him a "good-for-nothing," "a lazy lout," and
other similar tendernesses. So he breathed not a word, and continued to
ruminate upon his vengeance.
Months rolled on. Far from getting better the illness increased. As
soon as the old fellow tried to move, horrible pains seized him at
every joint. His daughter maltreated him, and at the height of his
attacks she would reply to his complaints that he'd do better if he
left the house, and she even threatened to send him to the hospital. It
was now June. The weather was one long succession of heavy rains; the
invalid suffered atrociously from the cold and the damp, and his
daughter, disgruntled at the bad weather, which interfered with her
washing, lived in unbroken sulkiness. She treated him worse than a dog,
and it was truly with the patience of a dog that he endured everything,
so much did he fear being sent away. A plan of vengeance had arisen in
his brain, and slowly, during the months, ever since he had learned
that his case was incurable, his project had absorbed his entire mental
activity,--indeed, his whole existence. He breathed only for his plan,
for the sure, propitious opportunity.
At last it came, and a terrible day it was. At dusk his daughter had
left, closing the door, as was her habit, and had not returned at
night. The old man was parched with thirst and his physical torture had
doubled. He resolved upon quick action.
In the morning,--it might have been about seven o'clock--his daughter
returned, or rather, rolled into the room, and with her, pell-mell came
"Jane", Bernardo's "friend". Jane was roundly berating his daughter.
"You rotten thing!" she cried. "I'll show you! Trying to take away
somebody else's man." And the two women came to blows, rousing the
entire neighborhood. They tried at last to separate the combatants, but
it would have been easier to break them to bits, so fiercely did they
struggle against each other. There was a whistle; the police arrived,
and the women were taken to the lock-up. All this as quick as a flash.
The old man had not had time to utter a word. But an extreme rage,
blind,--an anger such as only savage beasts can know, overpowered him.
What! His daughter, the mistress of Bernardo! This was the last straw!
Towards noon the mulatto came back. He had spent the night away from
home, under the pretext of a special patrol; he returned, ignorant of
the morning's events. He came in smiling, in that measured walk of his,
waddling along. He approached Felix and asked him the classic question:
"Now then, how goes it?"
Felix did not reply and merely made a sign with his hand. The policeman
entered. When he had come near, Felix said to him in a low voice that
he had something very serious to tell him. But first of all he insisted
that Bernardo go and bring his large knife.
"Why that, Felix? What do you want to do with a knife?" asked the
other.
The old man smiled mysteriously. "Quick, my boy, I'll tell you
afterwards, and you'll see that my story will be worth the trouble."
"All right, I'll get it," replied the officer. And a minute later he
was back with the knife, which he gave to the invalid.
"Now," continued the latter, "go and close the door, so that nobody
will hear. Close it well, and turn the key."
Bernardo felt some mistrust at all this mystery, but knowing for
certain that the helpless old man could do him no harm, he obeyed,
curiously waiting to learn what the other was up to.
"So, you want to tell me now?--Not yet! Here, first put this watch in
your pocket." And the old man drew from his pocket an ancient nickel
watch which he gave to the _cabra_.
"What am I to do with this, Felix?" asked the mulatto.
"Keep it, I tell you," was the reply.
"The old duffer is crazy for sure," thought Bernardo, nevertheless
doing as he was told. Then, seeing in what manner the invalid had
grasped the knife he discreetly withdrew a few paces.
Well, almost immediately Felix made a sudden movement that caused his
pain to increase anew, and he began to groan, to utter most terrible
cries, almost shrieks.
"I am dying! I am dying!"
Bernardo had never heard such awful groaning; his mistrust grew, and,
seeing that the old man still clutched the knife, he thought the
invalid would kill him if he should attempt to approach. He therefore
again stepped back a few paces and awaited developments, persuaded that
he had a lunatic in front of him. The groaning became louder and
louder, so that it was easily to be heard outside. Finally, the
_cabra_, tired of waiting, said, "I'll be back right away, Felix." And
he was about to leave.
Brusquely, the old man uncovered his own breast, and with a rapid
movement, right over the heart, he thrust in the blade with all his
might, up to the hilt. Not a drop of blood spurted out, the thick blade
obstructing the wound. His face convulsed with an expression of
excruciating torment; his hanging arms grew rigid.
The officer rushed to the door, opened it, called for help and returned
to pull the knife from the wound, and to see whether it was yet
possible to save the unfortunate man. Men and women, wildly excited,
ran up to the house crying loudly, and, seeing this man with a long
knife whence the blood was dripping, seeing also the pierced breast of
old Felix, the whole populace rushed upon Bernardo, disarmed him,
crying "Kill him! Kill him!" Bernardo was punched and kicked and
cudgelled from one infuriated person to the other in the crowd, and led
to the police-station by a multitude which every moment waxed greater
and more threatening.
Several months later the trial came to an end. Bernardo was sentenced
to hard labor for life. Nobody would believe his story. The proofs were
overwhelming. Had he not been caught red-handed? The presence of the
nickel-watch in his pocket indicated sufficiently that the motive of
the crime was robbery. The vengeance of old Felix had been well
calculated: the result was there. The old man had conquered.
THE PIGEONS
By Coelho Netto
Member Brazilian Academy of Letters
When the pigeons leave, misfortune follows.
--Indian superstition.
When Joanna appeared at the door yawning, fatigued after the long
sleepless night spent at her son's bedside, Triburcio, on the terrace,
leaning against his spade, was watching the pigeon-house closely.
The sun was already setting and gilded the moist leaves. At the edge of
the ravine, turtle-doves and starlings were circling in the air, making
a joyous noise above the high branches of the neighboring trees.
The _caboclo_[6] Indian did not remove his eyes from the pigeon-house.
The wrinkles on his forehead bore witness to an inner struggle--, grave
thoughts which were clouding his spirit. A pigeon took to flight, then
another, and still another; he turned his head, following them with his
gaze until they were out of sight, and then returned to his melancholy
contemplation.
[6] Caboclo signifies copper-colored. Indigenous tribes of Brazil
are so called from the color of their skin.
The birds came and went, entered the pigeon-house and left in agitated
manner, cooing loudly; they circled above the dwelling, sought the
trees, alighted on the thatch of the cabin, descended to earth in
spiral flight.
Some seemed to be getting their bearings, to seek a route: they gazed
across the clear stretches of space and penetrated to the distant
horizons. Others would fly off, describing vast circles, and would
return to the pigeon-house. Then all would come together as if for a
discussion, to plan their departure.
Some, undecided, opened their wings as if about to fly away, but soon
would close them again. Still others would dart off, only to come back
aimlessly, and the noise increased to a hubbub of hurried leaving.
The Indian gazed fixedly. Well he knew that the life of his little son
was at stake, and depended upon the decision of the birds. "When the
pigeons leave, misfortune quickly follows."
Joanna noticed his preoccupation. "What is the matter?" she asked.
The _caboclo_ scratched his head and made no reply. The woman insisted.
"What is the trouble, Tiburcio?"
"The pigeons have taken a whim into their heads, Joanna."
"And you are lost in the contemplation of it? I have not cared to
speak, but I know well the meaning of what I see."
The _caboclo_ slung the spade across his shoulder and walked slowly up
the road that led to the plantation, through the wet hay which exhaled
a piquant odor.
Some hens were clucking, hidden in the high grass, and a little ribbon
of water which flowed gently along sparkled here and there through the
openings in the brushwood.
Tiburcio, head bowed, spade on his shoulder, could not shake off the
deep impression that had been made upon him by the sudden migration of
the birds.
It was the fatal sign.
To be sure, he had heard the owl's screech for many and many a night;
but he had seen no cause for fear in this: everything was going along
nicely; their little son was in good health and they, too, knew no
illness. But now the warning of the evil omen was confirmed. The
pigeons which he had himself brought up were flying away. They were
leaving, thus forecasting the arrival of death.
He turned back; he raised his eyes. There were the birds high above,
still circling about, and Joanna was at the threshold of the cabin,
leaning against the jamb, her arms crossed, her head hanging. The poor
woman was surely weeping.
Within him he felt a mute explosion of hatred and revolt against the
ungrateful birds. Never had he had the courage to kill a single one of
them. He lived only for the purpose of keeping the pigeon-house in
order, thinking only of making it larger so that it might accommodate
more pairs. And the little child, was it not he who crushed the millet
for the fledglings, who climbed the mango-tree, going from branch to
branch to see whether there wasn't some crack through which the rain
came in? Who knows? Perhaps the pigeons were leaving their dwelling
because they no longer saw him?
He shrugged his shoulders and continued on his way. As he crossed the
dam his heart palpitated wildly. He stopped. The water, held back in
its course, threw back a motionless reflection of him. But although he
looked down upon it he saw not his image; his thoughts were entirely
with the little child who, burning with fever, was in delirium.
He chose a side path. The millet stems were so high that he disappeared
within them with a crumpling of dry leaves. The soft ant-hills which it
was his daily custom to level off failed to attract his attention. He
walked straight on. Parrots flew by, chattering, with their green wings
shining in the sun, and huge grasshoppers were jumping in the leaves.
He came upon a straw hut,--here the child was wont to play with its
toys;--there was even now a boot of wild sugar-cane. But already the
grass was beginning to invade the abandoned shelter.... For a month the
little child had not visited the place. When the father came to the
field of manioc he sat down, bent almost in two. The spade weighed upon
his shoulders like a burden. The strength had oozed out of his legs.
His whole body was broken with fatigue, as if at the end of a long
journey. He sat down upon a hillock and began to trace lines upon the
earth, with a distraught air.
At times it seemed as if he heard the echo of his wife's voice. He
would raise his head and strain his ears to catch the sound. But only
the rustling of the leaves stirred by the breeze and the chirping of
the insects in the sun came to him. All earth seemed to perspire. A
diaphanous vapor rose tremblingly from the hot soil; the leaves hung
languidly, and through the intense blueness of the sky passed some
_urubus_[7] in search of distant lodgings.
[7] Urubu: the black vulture of South America.
Suddenly a pigeon winged through the air, then another, and still
another. They were leaving ... they were leaving!... A beating of
wings,--more on the way. They would never return, never! They were
fleeing in horror, feeling the approach of death.
For a long time he gazed about him, but could see only the rich verdure
waving to the wind in the warm transparency of the atmosphere. He
should have taken his child to town as soon as the illness had
appeared. But who could have foretold this? He raised his eyes to
heaven and they lingered upon the luminous azure; then came another
pigeon. He shook his head and, striking his fist against his thigh,
slung his spade back upon his shoulder and turned in the direction of
his house.
When Joanna saw him on the terrace she appeared to divine his thoughts.
"It is well you returned, my dear! All alone here I am at a loss as to
what to do."