BRAZILIAN TALES

TRANSLATED FROM THE PORTUGUESEWITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

ISAAC GOLDBERG

Author of "Studies in Spanish-American Literature, " etc. 

BostonThe Four Seas Company

1921

_Copyright, 1921, by_THE FOUR SEAS COMPANYBoston, Mass. , U. S. A. 

The Four Seas Press

CONTENTS

 Page

PRELIMINARY REMARKS 7

THE ATTENDANT'S CONFESSION 43 BY JOAQUIM MARIA MACHADO DE ASSIS

THE FORTUNE-TELLER 65 BY JOAQUIM MARIA MACHADO DE ASSIS

LIFE 87 BY JOAQUIM MARIA MACHADO DE ASSIS

THE VENGEANCE OF FELIX 107 BY JOSÉ MEDEIROS E ALBUQUERQUE

THE PIGEONS 121 BY COELHO NETTO

AUNT ZEZE'S TEARS 139 BY CARMEN DOLORES

TO

J. D. M. FORD

SMITH PROFESSOR OF THE FRENCH AND SPANISHLANGUAGES, HARVARD UNIVERSITY

SOME INFORMAL PRELIMINARY REMARKS

The noted Brazilian critic, José Verissimo, in a short but importantessay on the deficiencies of his country's letters, has expressedserious doubt as to whether there exists a genuinely Brazilianliterature. "I do not know, " he writes, "whether the existence of anentirely independent literature is possible without an entirelyindependent language. " In this sense Verissimo would deny the existenceof a Swiss, or a Belgian, literature. In this sense, too, it was nodoubt once possible, with no small measure of justification, to denythe existence of an American, as distinguished from an English, literature. Yet, despite the subtle psychic bonds that link identity ofspeech to similarity of thought, the environment (which helps to shapepronunciation as well as vocabulary and the language itself) is, fromthe standpoint of literature, little removed from language as adetermining factor. Looking at the question, however, from the purelylinguistic standpoint, it is important to remember that the Spanish ofSpanish America is more different from the parent tongue than is theEnglish of this country from that of the mother nation. Similar changeshave taken place in the Portuguese spoken in Brazil. Yet who would nowpretend, on the basis of linguistic similarity, to say that there is noUnited States literature as distinguished from English literature?After all, is it not national life, as much as national language, thatmakes literature? And by an inversion of Verissimo's standard may wenot come face to face with a state of affairs in which differentliteratures exist within the same tongue? Indeed, is not such aconception as the "great American novel" rendered quite futile in theUnited States by the fact that from the literary standpoint we areseveral countries rather than one?

The question is largely academic. At the same time it is interesting tonotice the more assertive standpoint lately adopted by the charmingMexican poet, Luis G. Urbina, in his recent "La Vida Literaria deMéxico, " where, without undue national pride he claims the right to usethe adjective Mexican in qualifying the letters of his remarkablecountry. Urbina shows that different physiological and psychologicaltypes have been produced in his part of the New World; why, then, should the changes stop there? Nor have they ceased at that point, asSeńor Urbina's delightful and informative book reveals. So, too, whatever the merits of the academic question involved, a book likeAlencar's "Guarany, " for instance, could not have been written outsideof Brazil; neither could Verissimo's own "Scenes from Amazon Life. "

II. 

Brazilian literature has been divided into four main periods. The firstextends from the age of discovery and exploration to the middle of theeighteenth century; the second includes the second half of theeighteenth century; the third comprises the years of the nineteenthcentury up to 1840, while that date inaugurates the triumph ofRomanticism over pseudo-Classicism. Romanticism, as in other countries, gave way in turn to realism and various other movements current inthose turbulent decades. Sometimes the changes came not as a naturalphase of literary evolution, but rather as the consequence of pureimitation. Thus, Verissimo tells us, Symbolism, in Brazil, was a matterof intentional parroting, in many cases unintelligent. It did notcorrespond to a movement of reaction, --mystical, sensualist, individualist, socialistic or anarchistic, --as in Europe. 

Two chief impulses were early present in Brazilian letters: that ofPortuguese literature and that of the Jesuit colleges. At the time ofthe discovery of Brazil only Italy, Spain, France and Portugalpossessed a literary life. Portugal, indeed, as the Brazilian criticpoints out, was then in its golden period. It boasted chroniclers likeFernao Lopes, novelists like Bernardim Ribeiro, historians like Joao deBarros, and dramatists of the stamp of Gil Vicente. The Jesuitcolleges, too, were followed by other orders, spreading Latin cultureand maintaining communication between the interior and the importantcenters. It is natural, then, that early letters in Brazil should havebeen Portuguese not only in language, but in inspiration, feeling andspirit. Similarly, we find the early intellectual dependence of theSpanish American countries upon Spain, even as later both the Spanishand the Portuguese writers of America were to be influenced greatly byFrench literature. "Brazilian poetry, " says Verissimo in the littleessay already referred to, "was already in the seventeenth centurysuperior to Portuguese verse. " He foresaw a time when it wouldoutdistance the mother country. But Brazilian literature as a whole, hefound, lacked the perfect continuity, the cohesion, the unity of greatliteratures, chiefly because it began as Portuguese, later turned toeast (particularly France) and only then to Brazil itself. In the earlydays it naturally lacked the solidarity that comes from easycommunication between literary centers. This same lack of communicationwas in a sense still true at the time he wrote his essay. The elementof communicability did exist during the Romantic period (1835-1860), whereupon came influences from France, England, Italy, and evenGermany, and letters were rapidly denationalized. What was thus neededand beneficial from the standpoint of national culture prejudiced theinterests of national literature, says Verissimo. He finds, too, thatthere is too little originality and culture among Brazilian writers, and that their work lacks sincerity and form (1899). Poetry was toooften reduced to the love of form while fiction was too closely copiedfrom the French, thus operating to stifle the development of a nationaldramatic literature. Excessive preoccupation with politics and finance(where have we heard that complaint elsewhere?) still further impededthe rise of a truly native literature. 

Perhaps Verissimo's outlook was too pessimistic; he was an earnestspirit, unafraid to speak his mind and too much a lover of truth to bemisled by a love of his country into making exaggerated claims forworks by his countrymen. We must not forget that he was here lookingupon Brazilian letters as a whole; in other essays by him we discoverthat same sober spirit, but he is alive to the virtues of his fellowwriters as well as to their failings. 

It is with the prose of the latest period in Brazilian literature thatwe are here concerned. From the point of view of the novel and taleBrazil shares with Argentina, Columbia, Chile and Mexico the leadershipof the Latin-American[1] republics. If Columbia, in Jorge Isaacs'_Maria_, can show the novel best known to the rest of the world, andChile, in such a figure as Alberto Blest-Gana (author of _Martin Rivas_and other novels) boasts a "South American Balzac, " Brazil may point tomore than one work of fiction that Is worthy of standing beside_María_, _Martin Rivas_ or José Marmol's exciting tale of love andadventure, _Amalia_. The growing Importance of Brazil as a commercialnation, together with a corresponding increase of interest in the studyof Portuguese (a language easily acquired by all who know Spanish) willhave the desirable effect of making known to the English reading publica selection of works deserving of greater recognition. 

 [1] I am aware of the recent objection to this term (See my Studies in Spanish American Literature, pp. 233-237), but no entirely satisfactory substitute has been advanced. 

Just to mention at random a few of the books that should in the nearfuture be known to American readers, either in the original or throughthe medium of translations, I shall recall some of the names best knownto Brazilians in connection with the modern tale and novel. If there beanything lacking in the array of modern writers it is a certain broadvariety of subject and treatment to which other literatures haveaccustomed us. 

It is not to be wondered at that in surroundings such as the Amazonaffords an "Indian" school of literature should have arisen. We have ananalogous type of fiction in United States literature, old and new, produced by similar causes. Brazilian "Indianism" reached its highestpoint perhaps in José Alencar's famous _Guarany_, which won for itsauthor national reputation and achieved unprecedented success. From thebook was made a libretto that was set to music by the Braziliancomposer, Carlos Gomez. The story is replete with an intensity of lifeand charming descriptions that recall the pages of Chateaubriand, andits prose often verges upon poetry in its idealization of the Indianrace. Of the author's other numerous works _Iracema_ alone approaches_Guarany_ in popularity. The dominant note of the author, afterwardmuch repeated in the literary history of his nation, is the essentialgoodness and self-abnegation of the national character. 

Alfred d'Escragnolle Taunay (1843-1899) is among the most important ofBrazil's novelists. Born at Rio de Janeiro of noble family he wentthrough a course in letters and science, later engaging in the campaignof Paraguay. He took part in the retreat of La Laguna, an event whichhe has enshrined in one of his best works, first published in Frenchunder the title _La Retraite de la Laguna_. He served also as secretaryto Count d'Eu, who commanded the Brazilian army, and later occupiedvarious political offices, rising to the office of senator in 1886. Hislist of works is too numerous to mention in a fragmentary introductionof this nature; chief among them stands _Innocencia_; a sister tale, soto speak, to Isaacs's _María_. According to Verissimo, _Innocencia_ isone of the country's few genuinely original novels. It has been called, by Mérou (1900), "the best novel written in South America by a SouthAmerican, " a compliment later paid by Guglielmo Ferrero to GraçaAranha's _Canaan_. Viscount Taunay's famous work has been translatedinto French twice, once into English, Italian, German, Danish, and evenJapanese. 

The scene is laid in the deserted Matto Grosso, a favorite backgroundof the author's. Innocencia is all that her name implies, and dwellssecluded with her father, who is a miner, her negress slave Conga, andher Caliban-like dwarf Tico, who loves Innocencia, the Miranda of thisdistrict. Into Innocencia's life comes the itinerant physician, Cirinode Campos, who is called by her father to cure her of the fever. Cirinois her Ferdinand; they make love in secret, for she is meant bypaternal arrangement for a mere brute of a mule driver, Manaçao byname. Innocencia vows herself to Cirino, when the mule-driver comes toenforce his prior claim; the father, bound by his word of honor, sideswith the primitive lover. The tragedy seems foreordained, forInnocencia makes spirited resistance, while Manaçao avenges himself bykilling the doctor. A comic figure of a German scientist adds humor anda certain poignant irony to the tale. Such a bare outline conveysnothing of the mysterious charm of the original, nor of its poeticatmosphere. Comparing _Innocencia_ with what has been termed its sisterwork, _María_, I believe that _María_ is the better tale of the two, although there is much to be said for both. The point need not bepressed. The heroine of _María_ is more a woman, less a child thanInnocencia, hence the fate of the Spanish girl is tragic where that ofthe other maiden is merely pitiful. _Innocencia_, on the other hand, isstouter in texture. In _María_ there is no love struggle; the struggleis with life and circumstance; in _Innocencia_ there is not only theelement of rivalry in love, but in addition there is the rigid parentwho sternly, and at last murderously, opposes the natural desires of achild whom he has promised to another. Where _María_ is idyllic, poetic, flowing smoothing along the current of a realism tempered bysentimentalism, _Innocencia_ (by no means devoid of poetry) isromantic, melodramatic, rushing along turbulently to the outcome in adeath as violent as María's is peaceful. There is in each book asimilar importance of the background. In _Innocencia_ the "point ofhonor" is quite as strong and vindictive as in any play of the SpanishGolden Age. _María_ shares with _Innocencia_ relieving touches of humorand excellent pages of character description. 

Taunay's _O Encilhamento_ is a violent antithesis to the work justconsidered. Here the politician speaks. In passages of satire thatbecomes so acrimonious at times as to indicate real personages, thewave of speculation that swept Argentina and Brazil is analyzed andheld up to scorn. The novel is really a piece of historical muck-rakingand was long an object of resentment in the republic. 

Everything from Taunay's pen reveals a close communion with nature, an intimate understanding of the psychology of the vast region'sinhabitants. His shorter tales, which I hope later to present to theEnglish-reading public, reveal these powers at their best. Now it is asoldier who goes to war, only, like a military Enoch Arden, to returnand find his sweetheart in another's arms; now it is a clergyman, "thevicar of sorrows, " who, in the luxuriant environment of his chargesuffers the tortures of carnal temptations, with the spirit at lasttriumphant over the flesh. Whatever of artifice there is in thesetales is overcome, one of his most sympathetic critics tells us, bythe poetic sincerity of the whole. Taunay, too, has been likened toPierre Loti for his exotic flavor. In _Yerecé a Guaná_ we have aminiature _Innocencia_. Yerecé and Alberto Monteiro fall in love andmarry. The latter has been cured, at the home of Yerecé, of swampfever. The inevitable, however, occurs, and Montero hears the call ofcivilization. The marriage, according to the custom of the tribe intowhich Montero has wed, is dissolved by the man alone. He returns tohis old life and she dies of grief. 

A work that may stand beside _Innocencia_ and Verissimo's _Scenes fromAmazon Life_ as a successful national product is Inglez de Sousa's _OMissionario_. Antonio de Moraes, in this story, is not so strong inwill as Taunay's vicar of sorrows. Antonio is a missionary "with thevocation of a martyr and the soul of an apostle, " on duty in thetropics. The voluptuous magnetism of the Amazon seizes his body. Slowly, agonizingly, but surely he succumbs to the enchantment, overpowered by the life around him. 

Since Machado de Assis (who should precede Azevedo) and Coelho Netto(who should follow him, if strict chronological order were beingobserved) are both referred to in section three, which dealsparticularly with the authors represented in this sample assortment ofshort tales, they are here omitted. 

With the appearance of _O Mulato_ by Aluizio Azevedo (1857-1912), theliterature of Brazil, prepared for such a reorientation by the directinfluence of the great Portuguese, Eça de Queiroz, and Emile Zola, wasdefinitely steered toward naturalism. "In Aluizio Azevedo, " saysBenedicto Costa, "one finds neither the poetry of José de Alencar, northe delicacy, --I should even say, archness--of Macedo, nor thesentimental preciosity of Taunay, nor the subtle irony of Machado deAssis. His phrase is brittle, lacking lyricism, tenderness, dreaminess, but it is dynamic, energetic, expressive, and, at times, sensual to thepoint of sweet delirium. "

_O Mulato_, though it was the work of a youth in his early twenties, has been acknowledged as a solid, well-constructed example of Brazilianrealism. There is a note of humor, as well as a lesson in criticism, inthe author's anecdote (told in his foreword to the fourth edition)about the provincial editor who advised the youthful author to give upwriting and hire himself out on a farm. This was all the notice hereceived from his native province, Maranhao. Yet Azevedo grew to be oneof the few Brazilian authors who supported himself by his pen. 

When Brazilian letters are better known in this nation, among Azevedo'swork we should be quick to appreciate such a pithy book as the _Livrode uma Sogra_, --the Book of a Mother-in-Law. And when the literature ofthese United States is at last (if ever, indeed!) released from thechildish, hypocritical, Puritanic inhibitions forced upon it by quasiofficial societies, we may even relish, from among Azevedo's long shelfof novels, such a sensuous product as _Cortiço_. 

I have singled out, rather arbitrarily it must be admitted, a few ofthe characteristic works that preceded the appearance of Graça Aranha's_Canaan_, the novel that was lifted into prominence by GuglielmoFerrero's fulsome praise of it as the "great American novel. "[2] ForSouth America, no less than North, is hunting that literary will o' thewisp. Both _Maria_ and _Innocencia_ have been mentioned for that honor. 

 [2] Issued, in English (1920) by the publishers of this book. 

There is a distinct basis for comparison between _Innocencia_ andthe more famous Spanish American tale from Colombia; between these and_Canaan_, however, there is little similarity, if one overlook thepoetic atmosphere that glamours all three. Aranha's masterpiece is offar broader conception than the other two; it adds to their lyricism anepic sweep inherent in the subject and very soon felt in the treatment. It is, in fact, a difficult novel to classify, impregnated as it iswith a noble idealism, yet just as undoubtedly streaked with a powerfulrealism. This should, however, connote no inept mingling of genres; thestyle seems to be called for by the very nature of the vast theme--thatmoment at which the native and the immigrant strain begin to merge inthe land of the future--the promised land that the protagonists aredestined never to enter, even as Moses himself, upon Mount Nebo in theland of Moab, beheld Canaan and died in the throes of the great vision. 

_Canaan_ is of those novels that centre about an enthralling idea. The type which devotes much attention to depictions of life andcustoms, to discussions upon present realities and ultimate purposes, is perhaps more frequent among Spanish and Portuguese Americans thanamong our own readers who are apt to be overinsistent in their demandsfor swift, visible action. Yet, in the hands of a master, it possessesno less interest than the more obvious type of fiction, for ideaspossess more life than the persons who are moved by them. 

The idea that carries Milkau from the Old World to the New is an idealof human brotherhood, high purpose and dissatisfaction with the old, degenerate world. In the State of Espirito Santo, where the Germancolonists are dominant, he plans a simple life that shall drinkinspiration in the youth of a new, virgin continent. He falls in withanother German, Lentz, whose outlook upon life is at first the veryopposite to Milkau's blend of Christianity and a certain liberalsocialism. The strange milieu breeds in both an intellectual langourthat vents itself in long discussions, in breeding contemplation, mirages of the spirit. Milkau is gradually struck with something wrongin the settlement. Little by little it begins to dawn upon him thatsomething of the Old-World hypocrisy, fraud and insincerity, iscontaminating this supposedly virgin territory. Here he discovers noparadise ŕ la Rousseau--no natural man untainted by the ills ofcivilization. Graft is as rampant as in any district of the worldacross the sea; cruelty is as rife. His pity is aroused by the plightof Mary, a destitute servant who is betrayed by the son of heremployers. Not only does the scamp desert her when she most needs hisprotection and acknowledgment, but he is silent when his equallyvicious parents drive her forth to a life of intense hardship. She isspurned at every door and reduced to beggary. Her child is born underthe most distressing circumstances, and under conditions that strikethe note of horror the infant is slain before her very eyes while shegazes helplessly on. 

Mary is accused of infanticide, and since she lacks witnesses, she isplaced in a very difficult position. Moreover, the father of her childbends every effort to loosen the harshest measures of the communityagainst her, whereupon Milkau, whose heart is open to the sufferings ofthe universe, has another opportunity to behold man's inhumanity towoman. His pity turns to what pity is akin to; he effects her releasefrom jail, and together they go forth upon a journey that ends in thedelirium of death. The promised land had proved a mirage--at least forthe present. And it is upon this indecisive note that the book ends. 

Ferrero's introduction, though short, is substantial, and to the point. It is natural that he should have taken such a liking to the book, forAranha's work is of intense interest to the reader who looks forpsychological power, and Ferrero himself is the exponent of history aspsychology rather than as economic materialism. "The critics, " he says, "will judge the literary merits of this novel. As a literary amateur Iwill point out among its qualities the beauty of its style and itsdescriptions, the purity of the psychological analysis, the depth ofthe thoughts and the reflections of which the novel is full, and amongits faults a certain disproportion between the different parts of thebook and an ending which is too vague, indefinite and unexpected. Butits literary qualities seem to me to be of secondary importance to theprofound and incontrovertible idea that forms the kernel of the book. Here in Europe we are accustomed to say that modern civilizationdevelops itself in America more freely than in Europe, for in theformer country it has not to surmount the obstacle of an older society, firmly established, as in the case of the latter. Because of this, wecall America 'the country of the young, ' and we consider the New Worldas the great force which decomposes the old European social organization. "That idea is, as Ferrero points out, an illusion due to distance. Hepoints out, too, that here is everywhere "an old America strugglingagainst a new one and, this is very curious, the new America, whichupsets traditions, is formed above all by the European immigrants whoseek a place for themselves in the country of their adoption, whereasthe real Americans represent the conservative tendencies. Europe exertson American society--through its emigrants--the same dissolving actionwhich America exerts--through its novelties and its example--on the oldcivilization of Europe. " The point is very well taken, and contains thegerm of a great novel of the United States. And just as _Canaan_ standsby itself in Brazilian literature, so might such a novel achievepreeminence in our own. 

Ferrero is quite right in indicating the great non-literary importanceof the novel, though not all readers will agree with him as to theexcessive vagueness of the end. Hardly any other type of ending wouldhave befitted a novel that treats of transition, of a landscape thatdazzles and enthralls, of possibilities that founder, not through themalignance of fate, but through the stupidity of man. There is an epicswirl to the finale that reminds one of the disappearance of an ancientdeity in a pillar of dust. For an uncommon man like Milkau an uncommonend was called for. Numerous questions are touched upon in the courseof the leisurely narrative, everywhere opening up new vistas ofthought; for Aranha is philosophically, critically inclined; histraining is cosmopolitan, as his life has been; he knows the greatGermans, Scandinavians, Belgians and Russians; his native exuberancehas been tempered by a serenity that is the product of Europeaninfluence. He is some fifty-two years of age, has served his nation atChristiania as minister, at the Hague, and as leader in the Alliedcause. He is, therefore, an acknowledged and proven spokesman. Theauthor of _Canaan_ has done other things, among which this book, whichhas long been known in French and Spanish, stands out as a documentthat marks an epoch in Brazilian history as well as a stage inBrazilian literature. Whether it is "the" great American novel is ofinterest only to literary politicians and pigeon-holers; it is "a"great novel, whether of America or Europe, and that suffices for thelover of belles lettres. 

III. 

In considering the work of such writers as these and the authorsrepresented in this little pioneer volume one should bear continuallyin mind the many handicaps under which authorship labors in Portugueseand Spanish America: a small reading public, lack of publishers, widespread prevalence of illiteracy, instability of politics. Under thecircumstances it is not so much to be wondered at that the best work isof such a high average as that it was done at all. For in nations whereeducation is so limited and illiteracy so prevalent the manifoldfunctions which in more highly developed nations are performed by manyare perforce done by a few. Hence the spectacle in the new Spanish andPortuguese world, as in the old, of men and women who are at oncejournalists, novelists, dramatists, politicians, soldiers, poets andwhat not else. Such a versatility, often joined to a literaryprolixity, no doubt serves to lower the artistic worth of worksproduced under such conditions. 

In connection with the special character of the tales included in thepresent sample of modern Brazilian short stories, --particularly thoseby Machado de Assis and Medeiros e Albuquerque--it is interesting tokeep in mind the popularity of Poe and Hawthorne in South America. Theintrospection of these men, as of de Maupassant and kindred spirits, appeals to a like characteristic of the Brazilians. Such inner seeking, however, such preoccupation with psychological problems, does notoften, in these writers, reach the point or morbidity which we havebecome accustomed to expect in the novels and tales of the Russians. Stories like _The Attendant's Confession_ are written with a refinementof thought as well as of language. They are not, as so much ofBrazilian literature must perforce seem to the stranger's mind, exotic. They belong to the letters of the world by virtue of the human appealof the subject and the mastery of their treatment. 

Chief among the writers here represented stands Joaquim Maria Machadode Assis. (1839-1908). Born in Rio de Janeiro of poor parents he wasearly beset with difficulties. He soon found his way into surroundingswhere his literary tastes were awakened and where he came into contactwith some of the leading spirits of the day. The noted literaryhistorians of his country, Sylvio Roméro and Joao Ribeiro (in their_Compendio de Historia da Litteratura Brazileira_) find the writing ofhis first period of little value. The next decade, from his thirtiethto his fortieth year, is called transitional. With the year 1879, however, Machado de Assis began a long phase of maturity that was tolast for thirty years. It was during this fruitful period that_Memorias Postumas de Braz Cubas, Quincas Borbas, Historias Sem Data, Dom Casmurro, Varias Historias_ and other notable works were produced. The three tales by Machado de Assis in this volume are translated fromhis _Varias Historias_. That same bitter-sweet philosophy and gracious, if penetrating, irony which inform these tales are characteristic ofhis larger romances. Four volumes of poetry sustain his reputation aspoet. He is found, by Roméro and Ribeiro, to be very correct andsomewhat cold in his verse. He took little delight in nature and lackedthe passionate, robust temperament that projects itself upon pages ofardent beauty. In the best of his prose works, however, he penetratesas deep as any of his countrymen into the abyss of the human soul. 

The judgment of Verissimo upon Machado de Assis differs somewhat fromthat of his distinguished compatriots. Both because of the importanceof Machado de Assis to Brazilian literature, and as an insight intoVerissimo's delightful critical style, I translate somewhat at lengthfrom that writer. 

"With _Varias Historias_, " he says in his studies of Brazilian letters, "Sr. Machado de Assis published his fifteenth volume and his fifthcollection of tales . . . To say that in our literature Machado de Assisis a figure apart, that he stands with good reason first among ourwriters of fiction, that he possesses a rare faculty of assimilationand evolution which makes him a writer of the second Romanticgeneration, always a contemporary, a modern, without on this accounthaving sacrificed anything to the latest literary fashion or copiedsome brand-new aesthetic, above all conserving his own distinct, singular personality . . . Is but to repeat what has been said many timesalready. All these judgments are confirmed by his latest book, whereinmay be noted the same impeccable correctness of language, the same firmgrasp upon form, the same abundancy, force and originality of thoughtthat make of him the only thinker among our writers of fiction, thesame sad, bitter irony . . . 

"After this there was published another book by Sr. Machado de Assis, _Yayá Garcia_. Although this is really a new edition, we may wellspeak of it here since the first, published long before, is no longerremembered by the public. Moreover, this book has the delightful andhonest charm of being in the writer's first manner. 

"But let us understand at once, this reference to Machado de Assis'sfirst manner. In this author more than once is justified the criticalconcept of the unity of works displayed by the great writers. All ofMachado de Assis is practically present in his early works; in fact, hedid not change, he scarcely developed. He is the most individual, themost personal, the most 'himself' of our writers; all the germs of thisindividuality that was to attain in _Braz Cubas_, in _Quincas Borbas_, in the _Papeis Avulsos_ and in _Varias Historias_ its maximum ofvirtuosity, may be discovered in his first poems and in his earliesttales. His second manner, then, of which these books are the bestexample, is only the logical, natural, spontaneous development of hisfirst, or rather, it is the first manner with less of the romantic andmore of the critical tendencies . . . The distinguishing trait of Machadode Assis is that he is, in our literature, an artist and a philosopher. Up to a short time ago he was the only one answering to such adescription. Those who come after him proceed consciously andunconsciously from him, some of them being mere worthless imitators. Inthis genre, if I am not misemploying that term, he remained without apeer. Add that this philosopher is a pessimist by temperament and byconviction, and you will have as complete a characterization as it ispossible to design of so strong and complex a figure as his in twostrokes of the pen. 

"_Yayá Garcia_, like _Resurreiçao_ and _Helena_, is a romantic account, perhaps the most romantic written by the author. Not only the mostromantic, but perhaps the most emotional. In the books that followed itis easy to see how the emotion is, one might say, systematicallyrepressed by the sad irony of a disillusioned man's realism. " Verissimogoes on to imply that such a work as this merits comparison with thehumane books of Tolstoi. But this only on the surface. "For at bottom, it contains the author's misanthropy. A social, amiable misanthropy, curious about everything, interested in everything, --what is, in thefinal analysis, a way of loving mankind without esteeming it. . . 

"The excellency with which the author of _Yayá Garcia_ writes ourlanguage is proverbial . . . The highest distinction of the genius ofMachado de Assis in Brazilian literature is that he is the only trulyuniversal writer we possess, without ceasing on that account to bereally Brazilian. "

When the Brazilian Academy of letters was founded in 1897, Machado deAssis was unanimously elected president and held the position until hisdeath. Oliveira Lima, who lectured at Harvard during the college seasonof 1915-1916, and who is himself one of the great intellectual forcesof contemporary Brazil, has written of Machado de Assis: "By hisextraordinary talent as writer, by his profound literary dignity, bythe unity of a life that was entirely devoted to the cult ofintellectual beauty, and by the prestige exerted about him by his workand by his personality, Machado de Assis succeeded, despite a naturethat was averse to acclaim and little inclined to public appearance, inbeing considered and respected as the first among his country'smen-of-letters: the head, if that word can denote the idea, of ayouthful literature which already possesses its traditions andcherishes above all its glories . . . His life was one of the mostregulated and peaceful after he had given up active journalism, forlike so many others, he began his career as a political reporter, paragrapher and dramatic critic. "

Coelho Netto (Anselmo Ribas, 1864- ) is known to his countrymen as aprofessor of literature at Rio de Janeiro. His career has covered thefields of journalism, politics, education and fiction. Although hiswork is of uneven worth, no doubt because of his unceasingproductivity, he is reckoned by so exacting a critic as Verissimo asone of Brazil's most important writers, --one of the few, in fact, thatwill be remembered by posterity. Among his best liked stories are"Death, " "The Federal Capital, " "Paradise, " "The Conquest, " and"Mirage. " Netto's short stories are very popular; at one time everyother youth in Brazil was imitating his every mannerism. He isparticularly felicitous in his descriptions of tropical nature, whichteem with glowing life and vivid picturesqueness. 

Coelho Netto is considered one of the chief writers of the modernepoch. "He is really an idealist, " writes Verissimo, "but an idealistwho has drunk deeply of the strong, dangerous milk of Frenchnaturalism. " He sees nature through his soul rather than his eyes, andhas been much influenced by the mystics of Russia, Germany andScandinavia. His style is derived chiefly from the Portuguese group ofwhich Eça de Queiroz is the outstanding figure, and his language hasbeen much affected by this attachment to the mother country. His chiefstylistic quality is an epic note, tempered by a sentimental lyricism. 

In his book _Le Roman au Brésil_ (The Novel in Brazil, which I believethe author himself translated from the original Portuguese into French)Benedicto Costa, after considering Aluizio Azevedo as the exponent ofBrazilian naturalism and the epicist of the race's sexual instincts, turns to Coelho Netto's neo-romanticism, as the "eternal praise ofnature, the incessant, exaggerated exaltation of the landscape. . . " InNetto he perceives the most Brazilian, the least European of therepublic's authors. "One may say of him what Taine said of Balzac: 'Asort of literary elephant, capable of bearing prodigious burdens, butheavy-footed. ' And in fact . . . He reveals a great resemblance toBalzac, --a relative Balzac, for the exclusive use of a people, --but aBalzac none the less. "

Despite his lack of ideas, his mixture of archaisms, neologisms, hisexuberance, his slow development of plots, his lack of proportion(noticeable, naturally, in his longer works rather than in his shortfiction) he stands pre-eminent as a patron of the nation's intellectualyouth and as the romancer of its opulent imagination. 

Medeiros e Albuquerque (1867- ) is considered by some critics to be theleading exponent in the country of "the manner of de Maupassant, enveloped by an indefinable atmosphere that seems to bring back EdgarAllan Poe. " He has been director-general of public instruction in Riode Janeiro, professor at the Normal School and the National School ofFine Arts, and also a deputy from Pernambuco. With the surprisingversatility of so many South Americans he has achieved a reputation aspoet, novelist, dramatist, publicist, journalist and philosopher. 

IV. 

The part that women have played in the progress of the South Americanrepublics is as interesting as it is little known. The name of theworld's largest river--the Amazon, or more exactly speaking, theAmazons--stands as a lasting tribute to the bravery of the early womenwhom the explorer Orellana encountered during his conquest of themighty flood. [3] For he named the river in honor of the tribes'fighting heroines. Centuries later, when one by one the provinces ofSouth America rose to liberate themselves from the Spanish yoke, thewomen again played a noble part in the various revolutions. The statuein Colombia to Policarpa Salavarieta is but a symbol of South Americangratitude to a host of women who fought side by side with theirhusbands during the trying days of the early nineteenth century. One ofthem, Manuela la Tucumana, was even made an officer in the Argentinearmy. 

 [3] This derivation of the river's name is by many considered fanciful. A more likely source of the designation is the Indian word "Amassona, " i. E. , boat-destroyer, referring to the tidal phenomenon known as "bore" or "proroca, " which sometimes uproots tress and sweeps away whole tracts of land. 

If women, however, have enshrined themselves in the patriotic annals ofthe Southern republics, they have shown that they are no less thecompanions of man in the more or less agreeable arts of peace. When oneconsiders the great percentage of illiteracy that still prevails inSouthern America, and the inferior intellectual position which foryears has been the lot of woman particularly in the Spanish andPortuguese nations, it is surprising that woman's prominence in theliterary world should be what it is. 

The name of the original seventeenth century spirit known as Sor Inésde la Cruz (Mexico) is part of Spanish literature. Only recently hasshe been indicated as her nation's first folklorist and feminist! Herpoems have found their way into the anthologies of universal poesy. Themost distinguished Spanish poetess of the nineteenth century, GertrudisGómez de Avellaneda, was a Cuban by birth, going later to Spain, whereshe was readily received as one of the nation's leading literarylights. Her poetry is remarkable for its virile passion; her novel"Sab" has been called the Spanish "Uncle Tom's Cabin" for its stirringprotest against slavery and its idealization of the oppressed race. Shewas a woman of striking beauty, yet so vigorous in her work and theprosecution of it that one facetious critic was led to exclaim, "Thiswoman is a good deal of a man!"

But South America has its native candidate for the title of Spanish"Uncle Tom's Cabin, " and this, too, is the work of a woman. ClorindaMatto's "Aves Sin Nido" (Birds Without a Nest) is by one of Peru's mosttalented women, and exposes the disgraceful exploitation of the Indiansby conscienceless citizens and priests who had sunk beneath their holycalling. It seems, indeed, that fiction as a whole in Peru has beenleft to the pens of the women. Such names as Joana Manuele Girriti deBelzu, Clorinda Matto and Mercedes Cabello de Carbonero stand for whatis best in the South American novel. The epoch in which these womenwrote (late nineteenth century) and the natural feminine tendency toput the house in order (whether it be the domestic or the nationalvariety) led to such stories as Carbonero's "Las Consequencias, " "ElConspirador" and "Blanca Sol. " The first of these is an indictment ofthe Peruvian vice of gambling; the second throws an interesting lightupon the origin of much of the internal strife of South America, andportrays a revolution brought on by the personal disappointment of apolitician. "Blanca Sol" has been called a Peruvian "Madame Bovary. "

Although Brazil has not yet produced any Amazons of poetry or fictionto stand beside such names as Sor Inés de la Cruz or Gertrudis Gómez deAvallaneda, it has contributed some significant names to the womenwriters of Latin America. Not least among these is Carmen Dolores(Emilia Moncorvo Bandeira de Mello) who was born in 1852 at Rio deJaneiro and died in 1910, after achieving a wide reputation in thefield of the short story, novel and feuilleton. In addition to theseactivities she made herself favorably known in the press of Rio, SaoPaulo and Pernambuco. Her career started with the novel _Confession_. Other works are _The Struggle_, _A Country Drama_, and _BrazilianLegends_. The story in this volume is taken from a collection entitled_The Complex Soul_. 

 * * * * * * *

The present selection of tales makes no pretense at completeness, finality or infallibility of choice. This little book is, so to speak, merely a modest sample-case. Some of the tales first appeared, inEnglish, in the _Boston Evening Transcript_ and the _Stratford Journal_(Boston), to which organs I am indebted for permission to reprint them. 

ISAAC GOLDBERG. 

_Roxbury, Mass. _

THE ATTENDANT'S CONFESSION

By Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis

First President of the Brazilian Academy of Letters

So it really seems to you that what happened to me in 1860 is worthwhile writing down? Very well. I'll tell you the story, but on thecondition that you do not divulge it before my death. You'll not haveto wait long--a week at most; I am a marked man. 

I could have told you the story of my whole life, which holds manyother interesting details: but for that there would be needed time, courage and paper. There is plenty of paper, indeed, but my courage isat low ebb, and as to the time that is yet left me, it may be comparedto the life of a candle-flame. Soon tomorrow's sun will rise--a demonsun as impenetrable as life itself. So goodbye, my dear sir; read thisand bear me no ill will; pardon me those things that will appear evilto you and do not complain too much if there is exhaled a disagreeableodor which is not exactly that of the rose. You asked me for a humandocument. Here it is. Ask me for neither the empire of the Great Mogulnor a photograph of the Maccabees; but request, if you will, my deadman's shoes, and I'll will them to you and no other. 

You already know that this took place in 1860. The year before, aboutthe month of August, at the age of forty-two, I had become atheologian--that is, I copied the theological studies of a priest atNictheroy, an old college-chum, who thus tactfully gave me my board andlodging. In that same month of August, 1859, he received a letter fromthe vicar of a small town in the interior, asking if he knew of anintelligent, discreet and patient person who would be willing, inreturn for generous wages, to serve as attendant to the invalid ColonelFelisbert. The priest proposed that I take the place, and I accepted iteagerly, for I was tired of copying Latin quotations and ecclesiasticformulas. First I went to Rio de Janeiro to take leave of a brother wholived at the capital, and from there I departed for the little villageof the interior. 

When I arrived there I heard bad news concerning the colonel. He waspictured to me as a disagreeable, harsh, exacting fellow; nobody couldendure him, not even his own friends. He had used more attendants thanmedicines. In fact he had broken the faces of two of them. But to allthis I replied that I had no fear of persons in good health, still lessof invalids. So, after first visiting the vicar, who confirmed all thatI had heard and recommended to me charity and forbearance, I turnedtoward the colonel's residence. 

I found him on the veranda of his house, stretched out on a chair andsuffering greatly. He received me fairly well. At first he examined mesilently, piercing me with his two feline eyes; then a kind ofmalicious smile spread over his features, which were rather hard. Finally he declared to me that all the attendants he had ever engagedin his service hadn't been worth a button, that they slept too much, were impudent and spent their time courting the servants; two of themwere even thieves. 

"And you, are you a thief?"

"No, sir. "

Then he asked me my name. Scarcely had I uttered it when he made agesture of astonishment. 

"Your name is Colombo?"

"No, sir. My name is Procopio José Gomes Vallongo. "

Vallongo?--He came to the conclusion that this was no Christian nameand proposed thenceforth to call me simply Procopio. I replied that itshould be just as he pleased. 

If I recall this incident, it is not only because it seems to me togive a good picture of the colonel, but also to show you that my replymade a very good impression upon him. The next day he told the vicarso, adding that he had never had a more sympathetic attendant. The factis, we lived a regular honeymoon that lasted one week. 

From the dawn of the eighth day I knew the life of my predecessors--adog's life. I no longer slept. I no longer thought of anything, I wasshowered with insults and laughed at them from time to time with an airof resignation and submission, for I had discovered that this was a wayof pleasing him. His impertinences proceeded as much from his malady asfrom his temperament. His illness was of the most complicated: hesuffered from aneurism, rheumatism and three or four minor affections. He was nearly sixty, and since he had been five years old had beenaccustomed to having everybody at his beck and call. That he was surlyone could well forgive; but he was also very malicious. He tookpleasure in the grief and the humiliation of others. At the end ofthree months I was tired of putting up with him and had resolved toleave; only the opportunity was lacking. 

But that came soon enough. One day, when I was a bit late in giving hima massage, he took his cane and struck me with it two or three times. That was the last straw. I told him on the spot that I was through withhim and I went to pack my trunk. He came later to my room; he begged meto remain, assured me that there wasn't anything to be angry at, that Imust excuse the ill-humoredness of old age . . . He insisted so much thatI agreed to stay. 

"I am nearing the end, Procopio, " he said to me that evening. "I can'tlive much longer. I am upon the verge of the grave. You will go to myburial, Procopio. Under no circumstances will I excuse you. You shallgo, you shall pray over my tomb. And if you don't, " he added, laughing, "my ghost will come at night and pull you by the legs. Do you believein souls of the other world, Procopio?"

"Nonsense!"

"And why don't you, you blockhead?" he replied passionately, withdistended eyes. 

That is how he was in his peaceful intervals; what he was during hisattacks of anger, you may well imagine!

He hit me no more with his cane, but his insults were the same, if notworse. With time I became hardened, I no longer heeded anything; I wasan ignoramus, a camel, a bumpkin, an idiot, a loggerhead--I waseverything! It must further be understood that I alone was favored withthese pretty names. He had no relatives; there had been a nephew, buthe had died of consumption. As to friends, those who came now and thento flatter him and indulge his whims made him but a short visit, fiveor ten minutes at the most. I alone was always present to receive hisdictionary of insults. More than once I resolved to leave him; but asthe vicar would exhort me not to abandon the colonel I always yieldedin the end. 

Not only were our relations becoming very much strained, but I was in ahurry to get back to Rio de Janeiro. At forty-two years of age one doesnot easily accustom himself to perpetual seclusion with a brutal, snarling old invalid, in the depths of a remote village. Just to giveyou an idea of my isolation, let it suffice to inform you that I didn'teven read the newspapers; outside of some more or less important pieceof news that was brought to the colonel, I knew nothing of what wasdoing in the world. I therefore yearned to get back to Rio at the firstopportunity, even at the cost of breaking with the vicar. And I may aswell add--since I am here making a general confession--that havingspent nothing of my wages, I was itching to dissipate them at thecapital. 

Very probably my chance was approaching. The colonel was rapidlygetting worse. He made his will, the notary receiving almost as manyinsults as did I. The invalid's treatment became more strict; shortintervals of peace and rest became rarer than ever for me. Already Ihad lost the meagre measure of pity that made me forget the oldinvalid's excesses; within me there seethed a cauldron of aversion andhatred. At the beginning of the month of August I decided definitely toleave. The vicar and the doctor, finally accepting my explanations, asked me but a few days' more service. I gave them a month. At the endof that time I would depart, whatever might be the condition of theinvalid. The vicar promised to find a substitute for me. 

You'll see now what happened. On the evening of the 24th of August thecolonel had a violent attack of anger; he struck me, he called me thevilest names, he threatened to shoot me; finally he threw in my face aplate of porridge that was too cold for him. The plate struck the walland 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 fellasleep. While he slept I took a book out of my pocket, a translation ofan old d'Arlincourt romance which I had found lying about, and began toread it in his room, at a small distance from his bed. I was to wakehim at midnight to give him his medicine; but, whether it was due tofatigue or to the influence of the book, I, too, before reaching thesecond page, fell asleep. The cries of the colonel awoke me with astart; in an instant I was up. He, apparently in a delirium, continuedto utter the same cries; finally he seized his water-bottle and threwit at my face. I could not get out of the way in time; the bottle hitme in the left cheek, and the pain was so acute that I almost lostconsciousness. With a leap I rushed upon the invalid; I tightened myhands around his neck; he struggled several moments; I strangled him. 

When I beheld that he no longer breathed, I stepped back in terror. Icried out; but nobody heard me. Then, approaching the bed once more, Ishook him so as to bring him back to life. It was too late; theaneurism had burst, and the colonel was dead. I went into the adjoiningroom, and for two hours I did not dare to return. It is impossible forme to express all that I felt during that time. It was intensestupefaction, a kind of vague and vacant delirium. It seemed to me thatI saw faces grinning on the walls; I heard muffled voices. The cries ofthe victim, the cries uttered before the struggle and during its wildmoments continued to reverberate within me, and the air, in whateverdirection I turned, seemed to shake with convulsions. Do not imaginethat I am inventing pictures or aiming at verbal style. I swear to youthat 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 earto 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 tomy conscience; I was ready to let myself be struck ten, twenty, ahundred times, by the colonel's hand. But, nothing--all was silent. Ibegan to pace the room aimlessly; I sat down, I brought my handsdespairingly 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, againstthe doctor, the vicar--against all those who had procured the place forme and forced me to remain there so long. They, too, I convincedmyself, were accomplices in my crime. 

As the silence finally terrified me, I opened a window, in the hope ofhearing at least the murmuring of the wind. But no wind was blowing. The night was peaceful. The stars were sparkling with the indifferenceof those who remove their hats before a passing funeral procession andcontinue to speak of other things. I remained at the window for sometime, 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 mightescape the present agony. I believe it was only then that I thoughtclearly about the penalty of my crime. I saw myself already beingaccused and threatened with dire punishment. From this moment fearcomplicated my feeling of remorse. I felt my hair stand on end. A fewminutes later I saw three or four human shapes spying at me from theterrace, where they seemed to be waiting in ambush; I withdrew; theshapes 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 heartpounded. I thought of flight; but that would have been a confession ofthe crime. . . . It was on the contrary very important for me to hide alltraces of it. I approached the bed. I looked at the corpse, with itswidely distended eyes and its mouth gaping, as if uttering the eternalreproach of the centuries: "Cain, what hast thou done with thybrother?" I discovered on the neck the marks of my nails; I buttonedthe shirt to the top, and threw the bed-cover up to the dead man'schin. Then I called a servant and told him that the colonel had diedtowards 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 underthe 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 atall well. But I considered that my immediate departure might arousesuspicion, and I decided to wait. I laid out the corpse myself, withthe assistance of an old, near-sighted negro. I remained continually inthe room of the dead. I trembled lest something out of the way shouldbe discovered. I wanted to assure myself that no mistrust could be readupon the faces of the others; but I did not dare to look any person inthe eye. Everything made me impatient; the going and coming of thosewho, on tip-toe crossed the room; their whisperings; the ceremonies andthe prayers of the vicar. . . . The hour having come, I closed the coffin, but with trembling hands, so trembling that somebody noticed it andcommented upon it aloud, with pity. 

"Poor Procopio! Despite what he has suffered from his master, he isstrongly moved. "

It sounded like irony to me. I was anxious to have it all over with. Wewent out. Once in the street the passing from semi-obscurity todaylight dazed me and I staggered. I began to fear that it would nolonger be possible for me to conceal the crime. I kept my eyes steadilyfixed upon the ground and took my place in the procession. When all wasover, I breathed once more. I was at peace with man. But I was not atpeace with my conscience, and the first nights, naturally, I spent inrestlessness and affliction. Need I tell you that I hastened to returnto Rio de Janeiro, and that I dwelt there in terror and suspense, although far removed from the scene of the crime? I never smiled; Iscarcely spoke; I ate very little; I suffered hallucinations andnightmares. . . . 

"Let the dead rest in peace, " they would say to me. "It is out of allreason to show so much melancholy. "

And I was happy to find how people interpreted my symptoms, and praisedthe dead man highly, calling him a good soul, surly, in truth, but witha heart of gold. And as I spoke in such wise, I convinced myself, atleast for a few moments at a time. Another interesting phenomenon wastaking place within me--I tell it to you because you will perhaps makesome useful deduction from it--and that was, although I had very littlereligion in me, I had a mass sung for the eternal rest of the colonelat the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. I sent out no invitations toit, I did not whisper a word of it to anybody; I went there alone. Iknelt during the whole service and made many signs of the cross. I paidthe priest double and distributed alms at the door, all in the name ofthe deceased. 

I wished to deceive nobody. The proof of this lies in the fact that Idid all this without letting any other know. To complete this incident, I may add that I never mentioned the colonel without repeating, "Mayhis 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 thevicar. He announced that the will of the colonel had been opened andthat 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, tofriends; 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 thatthis was a trap to catch me, but then I considered that there wereother 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 partyto such a plan. I reread the letter five times, ten times, a hundredtimes; 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 myhands. At first I thought of refusing the legacy. It seemed odious totake a sou of that inheritance; it seemed worse than the reward of ahired assassin. For three days this thought obsessed me; but more andmore I was thrust against this consideration: that my refusal would notfail to awake suspicion. Finally I settled upon a compromise; I wouldaccept the inheritance and would distribute it in small sums, secretly. 

This was not merely scruple on my part, it was also the desire toredeem my crime by virtuous deeds; and it seemed the only way torecover my peace of mind and feel that accounts were straight. 

I made hurried preparations and left. As I neared the little villagethe sad event returned obstinately to my memory. Everything about theplace, as I looked at it once again, suggested tragic deeds. At everyturn in the road I seemed to see the ghost of the colonel loom. Anddespite 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 beenattacked, I had defended myself; and in self-defence. . . . It had been anunfortunate struggle, a genuine tragedy. This idea gripped me. And Ireviewed all the abuse he had heaped upon me; I counted the blows, thenames . . . It was not the colonel's fault, that I knew well; it was hisaffliction that made him so peevish and even wicked. But I pardonedall, 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 sayevery 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 continualmartyrdom of that poor man. . . . And who knows, who can say that thestruggle and his death were not simply a coincidence? That was afterall quite possible, it was even most probable; careful weighing of thematter showed that it couldn't have been otherwise. At length thisidea, too, engraved itself upon my mind. . . . 

Something tugged at my heart as I entered the village; I wanted to runback; but I dominated my emotions and I pressed forward. I was receivedwith a shower of congratulations. The vicar communicated to me theparticulars of the will, enumerated the pious gifts, and, as he spoke, praised the Christian forbearance and the faithfulness which I hadshown in my care of the deceased, who, despite his temper andbrutality, had so well demonstrated his gratitude. 

"Certainly, " I said, looking nervously around. 

I was astounded. Everybody praised my conduct. Such patience, suchdevotion. The first formalities of the inventory detained me for awhile; I chose a solicitor; things followed their course in regularfashion. During this time there was much talk of the colonel. Peoplecame and told me tales about him, but without observing the priest'smoderation. I defended the memory of the colonel. I recalled his goodqualities, his virtues; had he not been austere?. . . 

"Austere!" they would interrupt. "Nonsense! He is dead, and it's allover 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 greatcuriosity; then, a queer pleasure penetrated my heart, a pleasure fromwhich, sincerely, I tried to escape. And I continued to defend thecolonel; I explained him, I attributed much of the fault-finding tolocal animosity; I admitted, yes, I admitted that he had been a trifleexacting, 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 sameopinion. And they would start to relate other anecdotes. They reviewedthe entire life of the deceased. The old folks took particular delightin recalling the cruelties of his youth. And that queer pleasure, intimate, mute, insidious, grew within me--a sort of moral tape-wormwhose coils I tore out in vain, for they would immediately form againand 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 thatlittle by little the place lost the lugubrious aspect that had at firststruck me. At last I entered into possession of the legacy, which Iconverted into land-titles and cash. 

Several months had elapsed, and the idea of distributing theinheritance in charity and pious donations was by no means so strong asit had at first been; it even seemed to me that this would be sheeraffectation. I revised my initial plan; I gave away severalinsignificant sums to the poor; I presented the village church with afew new ornaments; I gave several thousand francs to the Sacred Houseof Mercy, etc. I did not forget to erect a monument upon the colonel'sgrave--a very simple monument, all marble, the work of a Neapolitansculptor who remained at Rio until 1866, and who has since died, Ibelieve, in Paraguay. 

Years have gone by. My memory has become vague and unreliable. Sometimes I think of the colonel, but without feeling again the terrorsof those early days. All the doctors to whom I have described hisafflictions have been unanimous as regards the inevitable end in storefor the invalid, and were indeed surprised that he should so long haveresisted. It is just possible that I may have involuntarily exaggeratedthe description of his various symptoms; but the truth is that he wassure of sudden death, even had this fatality not occurred. . . . 

Good-bye, my dear sir. If you deem these notes not totally devoid ofvalue reward me for them with a marble tomb, and place there for myepitaph this variant which I have made of the divine sermon on themount:

"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 andearth than are dreamt of in our philosophy. This was the selfsameexplanation that was given by beautiful Rita to her lover, Camillo, ona certain Friday of November, 1869, when Camillo laughed at her forhaving gone, the previous evening, to consult a fortune-teller. Theonly 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 mycoming before I ever spoke a word. Scarcely had she begun to lay outthe cards when she said to me: 'The lady likes a certain person . . . ' Iconfessed that it was so, and then she continued to rearrange the cardsin various combinations, finally telling me that I was afraid you wouldforget 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 wentthere, all on account of you. You know. I've told you before. Don'tlaugh at me; don't poke fun at me. . . . "

Camillo seized her hands and gazed into her eyes earnestly and long. Heswore that he loved her ever so much, that her fears were childish; inany case, should she ever harbor a fear, the best fortune-teller toconsult was he himself. Then he reproved her, saying that it wasimprudent 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 thisworld. If he was skeptical, let him have patience. One thing, however, was certain: the card reader had guessed everything. What more could hedesire? The best proof was that at this moment she was at ease andcontent. 

He was about to speak, but he restrained himself. He did not wish todestroy her illusions. He, too, when a child, and even later, had beensuperstitious, filled with an arsenal of beliefs which his mother hadinstilled, and which had disappeared by the time he reached twenty. Theday on which he rid himself of all this parasitic vegetation, leavingbehind only the trunk of religion, he wrapped his superstition and hisreligion (which had both been inculcated by his mother) in the samedoubt, and soon arrived at a single, total negation. Camillo believedin nothing. Why? He could not have answered; he had not a solitaryreason; he was content simply to deny everything. But I express myselfill, for to deny is in a sense to affirm, and he did not formulate hisunbelief. Before the great mystery he simply shrugged his shoulders andwent on. 

The lovers parted in good spirits, he more happy than she. Rita wassure that she was loved; but Camillo was not only sure that she lovedhim, but saw how she trembled for him and even took risks, running tofortune-tellers. However much he had reproved her for this, he couldnot help feeling flattered by it. Their secret meeting-place was in theold Barbonos street at the home of a woman that came from Rita'sprovince. Rita went off through Mangueiras street, in the direction ofBotafogo, 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 noexplanation of how it all began. Let us proceed to explain. The firsttwo were friends since earliest childhood. Villela had entered themagistracy. Camillo found employment with the government, against thewill 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 thebeginning of the year 1869 Villela returned from the interior, where hehad married a silly beauty; he abandoned the magistracy and came hitherto open a lawyer's office. Camillo had secured a house for him nearBotafogo 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 alwaystalking about you. "

Camillo and Villela looked at each other tenderly. They were truefriends. Afterwards, Camillo confessed to himself that Villela's wifedid not at all belie the enthusiastic letters her husband had writtento him. Really, she was most prepossessing, lively in her movements, her eyes burning, her mouth plastic and piquantly inquiring. Rita was atrifle older than both the men: she was thirty, Villela twenty-nine andCamillo twenty-six. The grave bearing of Villela gave him theappearance of being much older than his wife, while Camillo was but achild in moral and practical life. . . . He possessed neither experiencenor intuition. 

The three became closely bound. Propinquity bred intimacy. Shortlyafterwards Camillo's mother died, and in this catastrophe, for such itwas, the other two showed themselves to be genuine friends of his. Villela took charge of the interment, of the church services and thesettlement 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 neverknew. The truth is that he enjoyed passing the hours at her side; shewas his spiritual nurse, almost a sister, --but most of all she was awoman, and beautiful. The aroma of femininity: this is what he yearnedfor in her, and about her, seeking to incorporate it into himself. Theyread the same books, they went together to the theatre or for walks. Hetaught her cards and chess, and they played of nights;--she badly, --he, to make himself agreeable, but little less badly. Thus much, as far asexternal things are concerned. And now came personal intimacies, thetimorous eyes of Rita, that so often sought his own, consulting thembefore they questioned those of her own husband, --the touches of coldhands, and unwonted communion. On one of his birthdays he received fromVillela a costly cane, and from Rita, a hastily pencilled, ordinarynote expressing good wishes. It was then that he learned to read withinhis own heart; he could not tear his eyes away from the missive. Commonplace words, it is true; but there are sublime commonplaces, --orat least, delightful ones. The old chaise in which for the first timeyou rode with your beloved, snuggled together, is as good as thechariot of Apollo. Such is man, and such are the circumstances thatsurround him. 

Camillo sincerely wished to flee the situation, but it was alreadybeyond his power. Rita, like a serpent, was charming him, winding hercoils about him; she was crushing his bones, darting her venomous fangsinto his lips. He was helpless, overcome. Vexation, fear, remorse, desire, --all this he felt, in a strange confusion. But the battle wasshort and the victory deliriously intoxicating. Farewell, all scruple!The shoe now fitted snugly enough upon the foot, and there they wereboth, launched upon the high road, arm in arm, joyfully treading thegrass and the gravel, without suffering anything more than lonesomenesswhen they were away from each other. As to Villela, his confidence inhis wife and his esteem for his friend continued the same as before. 

One day, however, Camillo received an anonymous letter, which calledhim immoral and perfidious, and warned him that his adventure was knownto all. Camillo took fright, and, in order to ward off suspicion, beganto make his visits to Villela's house more rare. The latter asked himthe reason for his prolonged absence. Camillo answered that the causewas a youthful flirtation. Simplicity evolved into cunning. Camillo'sabsences became longer and longer, and then his visits ceased entirely. Into this course there may have entered a little self-respect, --theidea of diminishing his obligations to the husband in order to make hisown actions appear less treacherous. 

It was at this juncture that Rita, uncertain and in fear, ran to thefortune-teller to consult her upon the real reason for Camillo'sactions. As we have seen, the card reader restored the wife'sconfidence and the young man reproved her for having done what she did. A few weeks passed. Camillo received two or three more anonymousletters, written with such passionate anger that they could not havebeen prompted by mere regard for virtue; surely they came from someviolent rival of his. In this opinion Rita concurred, formulating, inill-composed words of her own, this thought: virtue is indolent andniggardly, wasting neither time nor paper; only self-interest is alertand prodigal. 

But this did not help to ease Camillo; he now feared lest the anonymouswriter should inform Villela, in which case the catastrophe wouldfollow fast and implacably. Rita agreed that this was possible. 

"Very well, " she said. "Give me the envelopes in which the letterscame, so that I may compare the handwriting with that of the mail whichcomes to him. If any arrives with writing resembling the anonymousscript, I'll keep it and tear it up . . . "

But no such letter appeared. A short time after this, however, Villelacommenced to grow grave, speaking very little, as if something weighedupon his mind. Rita hurried to communicate the change to her lover, andthey discussed the matter earnestly. Her opinion was that Camilloshould renew his visits to their home, and sound her husband; it mightbe that Villela would confide to him some business worry. With thisCamillo disagreed; to appear after so many months was to confirm thesuspicions and denunciations of the anonymous letters. It was better tobe very careful, to give each other up for several weeks. They arrangedmeans for communicating with each other in case of necessity andseparated, in tears. 

On the following day Camillo received at his department this letterfrom Villela: "Come immediately to our house; I must talk to youwithout delay. " It was past noon. Camillo left at once; as he reachedthe street it occurred to him that it would have been much more naturalfor Villela to have called him to his office; why to his house? Allthis betokened a very urgent matter; moreover, whether it was realityor illusion, it seemed to Camillo that the letter was written in atrembling hand. He sought to establish a connection between all thesethings and the news Rita had brought him the night before. 

"Come immediately to our house; I must talk to you without delay, " herepeated, his eyes staring at the note. 

In his mind's eye he beheld the climax of a drama, --Rita cowed, weeping; Villela indignant, seizing his pen and dashing off the letter, certain that he, Camillo, would answer in person, and waiting to killhim as he entered. Camillo shuddered with terror; then he smiledweakly; in any event the idea of drawing back was repugnant to him. Sohe continued on his way. As he walked it occurred to him to step intohis rooms; he might find there a message from Rita explainingeverything. But he found nothing, nobody. He returned to the street, and the thought that they had been discovered grew every moment moreconvincing; yes, the author of the previous anonymous communicationsmust have denounced him to the husband; perhaps by now Villela knewall. The very suspension of his calls without any apparent reason, withthe flimsiest of pretexts, would confirm everything else. 

Camillo walked hastily along, agitated, nervous. He did not read theletter again, but the words hovered persistently before his eyes; orelse, --which was even worse--they seemed to be murmured into his earsby the voice of Villela himself. "Come immediately to our house; I musttalk to you without delay. " Spoken thus by the voice of the other theyseemed pregnant with mystery and menace. Come immediately, --why? It wasnow nearly one o'clock. Camillo's agitation waxed greater with eachpassing moment. So clearly did he imagine what was about to take placethat he began to believe it a reality, to see it before his very eyes. Yes, without a doubt, he was afraid. He even considered arming himself, thinking that if nothing should happen he would lose nothing by thisuseful precaution. But at once he rejected the idea, angry withhimself, and hastened his step towards Carioca square, there to take atilbury. He arrived, entered and ordered the driver to be off at fullspeed. 

"The sooner the better, " he thought. "I can't stand this uncertainty. "

But the very sound of the horse's clattering hoofs increased hisagitation. Time was flying, and he would be face to face with dangersoon enough. When they had come almost to the end of Guarda-Velhastreet the tilbury had to come to a stop; the thoroughfare was blockedby a coach that had broken down. Camillo surveyed the obstruction anddecided to wait. After five minutes had gone by, he noticed that thereat his left, at the very foot of the tilbury, was the fortune teller'shouse, --the very same as Rita had once consulted. Never, as at thismoment, had he so desired to believe in card-reading. He looked closer, saw that the windows were closed, while all the others on the streetwere opened, filled with folks curious to see what was the matter. Itlooked for all the world like the dwelling of indifferent Fate. 

Camillo leaned back in his seat so as to shut all this from view. Hisexcitement was intense, extraordinary, and from the deep, hiddenrecesses of his mind there began to emerge spectres of early childhood, old beliefs, banished superstitions. The coachman proposed anotherroute; he shook his head and said that he would wait. He leaned forwardto get a better look at the card-reader's house . . . Then he made agesture of self-ridicule: it had entered his mind to consult thefortune-teller, who seemed to be hovering over him, far, far above, with vast, ash-colored wings; she disappeared, reappeared, and then herimage was lost; then, in a few moments, the ash-colored wings stirredagain, nearer, flying about him in narrowing circles . . . In the streetmen were shouting, dragging away the coach. 

"There! Now! Push! That's it! Now!"

In a short while the obstruction was removed. Camillo closed his eyes, trying to think of other things; but the voice of Rita's husbandwhispered into his ears the words of the letter: "Come immediately . . . "And he could behold the anguish of the drama. He trembled. The houseseemed to look right at him. His feet instinctively moved as if toleave the carriage and go in . . . Camillo found himself before a long, opaque veil . . . He thought rapidly of the inexplicability of so manythings. The voice of his mother was repeating to him a host ofextraordinary happenings; and the very sentence of the Prince ofDenmark kept echoing within him:

 "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in our philosophy. "

What could he lose by it, if. . . ?

He jumped out to the pavement, just before the fortune-teller's door;he told the driver to wait for him, and hastened into the entry, ascending the stairs. There was little light, the stairs were worn awayfrom the many feet that had sought them, the banister was smooth andsticky; but he saw and felt nothing. He stumbled up the stairs andknocked. Nobody appearing, he was about to go down; but it was too latenow, --curiosity was whipping his blood and his heart beat with violentthrobs; he turned back to the door, and knocked once, twice, threetimes. He beheld a woman; it was the card-reader. Camillo said that hehad come to consult her, and she bade him enter. Thence they climbed tothe attic by a staircase even worse than the first and buried in deepergloom. At the top there was a garret, ill lighted by a small window. Old furniture, somber walls, and an air of poverty augmented, ratherthan destroyed, the prestige of the occupant. 

The fortune-teller told him to be seated before the table, and she satdown on the opposite side with her back to the window, so that whateverlittle light came from without fell full upon Camillo's face. Sheopened a drawer and took out a pack of worn, filthy cards. While sherapidly shuffled them she peered at him closely, not so much with adirect gaze as from under her eyes. She was a woman of forty, Italian, thin and swarthy, with large, sharp, cunning eyes. She placed threecards upon the table, and said:

"Let us first see what has brought you here. The gentleman has justreceived a severe shock and is in great fear . . . "

Camillo, astonished, nodded affirmatively. 

"And he wishes to know, " she continued, "whether anything will happento him or not . . . "

"To me and to her, " he explained, excitedly. 

The fortune-teller did not smile; she simply told him to wait. She tookthe cards hastily once more and shuffled them with her long taperingfingers whose nails were so long and unclean from neglect; she shuffledthem well, once, twice, thrice; then she began to lay them out. Camillo's eyes were riveted upon her in anxious curiosity. 

"The cards tell me . . . "

Camillo leaned forward to drink in her words one by one. Then she toldhim to fear nothing. Nothing would happen to him or to the other. He, the third, was aware of nought. Nevertheless, great caution wasindispensable; envy and rivalry were at work. She spoke to him of thelove that bound them, of Rita's beauty . . . Camillo was bewildered. Thefortune-teller stopped talking, gathered the cards and locked them inthe drawer. 

"The lady has restored peace to my spirit, " he said, offering her hishand across the table and pressing that of the card-reader. 

She arose, laughing. 

"Go, " she said. "Go, _ragazzo innamorato_ . . . "[4]

 [4] Italian for "love-sick boy, " "young lover, " etc. 

And arising, she touched his head with her index finger. Camilloshuddered, as if it were the hand of one of the original sybils, andhe, too, arose. The fortune-teller went to the bureau, upon which lay aplate of raisins, took a cluster of them and commenced to eat them, showing two rows of teeth that were as white as her nails were black. Even in this common action the woman possessed an air all her own. Camillo, anxious to leave, was at a loss how much to pay; he did notknow her fee. 

"Raisins cost money, " he said, at length, taking out his pocket-book. "How much do you want to send for?"

"Ask your heart, " she replied. 

Camillo took out a note for ten milreis'[5] and gave it to her. Theeyes of the card-reader sparkled. Her usual fee was two milreis. 

 [5] In United States money ten Brazilian milreis are equivalent to about $5. 50. 

"I can see easily that the gentleman loves his lady very much . . . Andwell he may. For she loves the gentleman very deeply, too. Go, go inpeace, with your mind at ease. And take care as you descend thestaircase, --it's dark. Don't forget your hat . . . "

The fortune-teller had already placed the note in her pocket, andaccompanied him down the stairs, chatting rather gaily. At the bottomof the first flight Camillo bid her good-bye and ran down the stairsthat led to the street, while the card-reader, rejoicing in her largefee, turned back to the garret, humming a barcarolle. Camillo found thetilbury waiting for him; the street was now clear. He entered and thedriver whipped his horse into a fast trot. 

To Camillo everything had now changed for the better and his affairsassumed a brighter aspect; the sky was clear and the faces of thepeople he passed were all so merry. He even began to laugh at hisfears, which he now saw were puerile; he recalled the language ofVillela's letter and perceived at once that it was most friendly andfamiliar. How in the world had he ever been able to read any threat ofdanger into those words! He suddenly realized that they were urgent, however, and that he had done ill to delay so long; it might be somevery serious business affair. 

"Faster, faster!" he cried to the driver. 

And he began to think of a plausible explanation of his delay; he evencontemplated taking advantage of this incident to re-establish hisformer intimacy in Villela's household . . . Together with his plansthere kept echoing in his soul the words of the fortune-teller. Intruth, she had guessed the object of his visit, his own state of mind, and the existence of a third; why, then, wasn't it reasonable tosuppose that she had guessed the rest correctly, too? For, the unknownpresent is the same as the future. And thus, slowly and persistentlythe young man's childhood superstitions attained the upper hand andmystery clutched him in its iron claws. At times he was ready to burstinto laughter, and with a certain vexation he did laugh at himself. Butthe woman, the cards, her dry, reassuring words, and her good-bye--"Go, go, _ragazzo innamorato_, " and finally, that farewell barcarolle, solively and gracious, --such were the new elements which, together withthe old, formed within him a new and abiding faith. 

The truth is that his heart was happy and impatient, recalling thehappy hours of the past and anticipating those yet to come. As hepassed through Gloria street Camillo gazed across the sea, far acrosswhere the waters and the heaven meet in endless embrace, and the sightgave him a sensation of the future, --long, long and infinite. 

From here it was but a moment's drive to Villela's home. He steppedout, thrust the iron garden gate open and entered. The house wassilent. He ran up the six stone steps and scarcely had he had time toknock when the door opened and Villela loomed before him. 

"Pardon my delay. It was impossible to come sooner. What is thematter?"

Villela made no reply. His features were distorted; he beckoned Camilloto step within. As he entered, Camillo could not repress a cry ofhorror:--there upon the sofa lay Rita, dead in a pool of blood. Villelaseized the lover by the throat and, with two bullets, stretched himdead upon the floor. 

LIFE

By Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis

 End of time. Ahasverus, seated upon a rock, gazes for a long while upon the horizon, athwart which wing two eagles, crossing each other in their path. He meditates, then falls into a doze. The day wanes. 

AHASVERUS. I have come to the end of time; this is the threshold ofeternity. The earth is deserted; no other man breathes the air of life. I am the last; I can die. Die! Precious thought! For centuries ofcenturies I have lived, wearied, mortified, wandering ever, but now thecenturies are coming to an end, and I shall die with them. Ancientnature, farewell! Azure sky, clouds ever reborn, roses of a day and ofevery day, perennial waters, hostile earth that never would devour mybones, farewell! The eternal wanderer will wander no longer. God maypardon me if He wishes, but death will console me. That mountain is asunyielding as my grief; those eagles that fly yonder must be asfamished as my despair. Shall you, too, die, divine eagles?

PROMETHEUS. Of a surety the race of man is perished; the earth is bareof them. 

AHASVERUS. I hear a voice. . . . The voice of a human being? Implacableheavens, am I not then the last? He approaches. . . . Who are you? Thereshines in your large eyes something like the mysterious light of thearchangels of Israel; you are not a human being?. . . 

PROMETHEUS. No. 

AHASVERUS. Of a race divine, then?

PROMETHEUS. You have said it. 

AHASVERUS. I do not know you; but what matters it that I do not? Youare not a human being; then I may die; for I am the last and I closethe gate of life. 

PROMETHEUS. Life, like ancient Thebes, has a hundred gates. You closeone, and others will open. You are the last of your species? Thenanother better species will come, made not of clay, but of the lightitself. Yes, last of men, all the common spirits will perish forever;the flower of them it is which will return to earth and rule. The ageswill be rectified. Evil will end; the winds will thenceforth scatterneither the germs of death nor the clamor of the oppressed, but onlythe song of love everlasting and the benediction of universaljustice. . . . 

AHASVERUS. What can all this posthumous joy matter to the species thatdies with me? Believe me, you who are immortal, to the bones that rotin the earth the purples of Sidonia are worthless. What you tell me iseven better than what Campanella dreamed. In that man's ideal citythere were delights and ills; yours excludes all mortal and physicalailments. May the Lord hear you! But let me go and die. 

PROMETHEUS. Go, go. But why this haste to end your days?

AHASVERUS. The haste of a man who has lived for thousands of years. Yes, thousands of years. Men who existed scarcely scores of theminvented a feeling of ennui, _tedium vitae_, which they could neverknow, at least in all its implacable and vast reality, because it isnecessary to have journeyed through all the generations and all thecataclysms to feel that profound surfeit of existence. 

PROMETHEUS. Thousands of years?

AHASVERUS. My name Is Ahasverus; I dwelt in Jerusalem at the time theywere about to crucify Christ. When he passed my door he weakened underthe burden of the beam that he carried on his shoulders, and I thrusthim onward, admonishing him not to stop, not to rest, to continue onhis way to the hill where he was to be crucified. . . . Then there came avoice from heaven, telling me that I, too, should have to journeyforever, continuously, until the end of time. Such was my crime; I feltno pity for him who was going to his death. I do not know myself how itcame about. The Pharisees said that the son of Mary had come to destroythe law, and that he must be slain; I, ignorant wretch, wished todisplay my zeal and hence my action of that day. How many times have Iseen the same thing since, traveling unceasingly through cities andages! Whenever zealotry penetrated into a submissive soul, it becamecruel or ridiculous. My crime was unpardonable. 

PROMETHEUS. A grave crime, in truth, but the punishment was lenient. The other men read but a chapter of life; you have read the whole book. What does one chapter know of the other chapter? Nothing. But he whohas read them all, connects them and concludes. Are there melancholypages? There are merry and happy ones, too. Tragic convulsion precedesthat of laughter; life burgeons from death; swans and swallows changeclimate, without ever abandoning it entirely; and thus all isharmonized and begun anew. You have beheld this, not ten times, not athousand times, but ever; you have beheld the magnificence of the earthcuring the affliction of the soul, and the joy of the soul compensatingfor the desolation of things; the alternating dance of Nature, whogives her left hand to Job and her right to Sardanapalus. 

AHASVERUS. What do you know of my life? Nothing; you are ignorant ofhuman existence. 

PROMETHEUS. I, ignorant of human life? How laughable! Come, perpetualman, explain yourself. Tell me everything; you left Jerusalem . . . 

AHASVERUS. I left Jerusalem. I began my wandering through the ages. Ijourneyed everywhere, whatever the race, the creed, the tongue; sunsand snows, barbarous and civilized peoples, islands, continents;wherever a man breathed, there breathed I. I never labored. Labor is arefuge, and that refuge was denied me. Every morning I found upon methe necessary money for the day . . . See; this is the lastapportionment. Go, for I need you no longer. (_He draws forth the moneyand throws it away. _) I did not work; I just journeyed, ever and ever, one day after another, year after year unendingly, century aftercentury. Eternal justice knew what it was doing: it added idleness toeternity. One generation bequeathed me to the other. The languages, asthey died, preserved my name like a fossil. With the passing of timeall was forgotten; the heroes faded into myths, into shadow, andhistory crumbled to fragments, only two or three vague, remotecharacteristics remaining to it. And I saw them in changing aspect. Youspoke of a chapter? Happy are those who read only one chapter of life. Those who depart at the birth of empires bear with them the impressionof their perpetuity; those who die at their fall, are buried in thehope of their restoration; but do you not realize what it is to see thesame things unceasingly, --the same alternation of prosperity anddesolation, desolation and prosperity, eternal obsequies and eternalhalleluiahs, dawn upon dawn, sunset upon sunset?

PROMETHEUS. But you did not suffer, I believe. It is something not tosuffer. 

AHASVERUS. Yes, but I saw other men suffer, and in the end thespectacle of joy gave me the same sensations as the discourses of anidiot. Fatalities of flesh and blood, unending strife, --I saw all passbefore my eyes, until night caused me to lose my taste for day, and nowI cannot distinguish flowers from thistles. Everything is confused inmy wearied retina. 

PROMETHEUS. But nothing pained you personally; and what about me, fromtime immemorial suffering the wrath of the gods?

AHASVERUS. You?

PROMETHEUS. My name is Prometheus. 

AHASVERUS. You! Prometheus!

PROMETHEUS. And what was my crime? Out of clay and water I made thefirst men, and afterwards, seized with compassion, I stole for themfire from the sky. Such was my crime. Jupiter, who then reigned overOlympus, condemned me to the most cruel of tortures. Come, climb thisrock with me. 

AHASVERUS. You are telling me a tale. I know that Hellenic myth. 

PROMETHEUS. Incredulous old fellow! Come see the very chains thatfettered me; it was an excessive penalty for no crime whatever; butdivine pride is terrible . . . See; there they are . . . 

AHASVERUS. And time, which gnaws all things, does not desire them, then?

PROMETHEUS. They were wrought by a divine hand. Vulcan forged them. Twoemissaries from heaven came to secure me to the rock, and an eagle, like that which now is flying across the horizon, kept gnawing at myliver without ever consuming it. This lasted for time beyond myreckoning. No, no, you cannot imagine this torture . . . 

AHASVERUS. Are you not deceiving me? You, Prometheus? Was that not, then, a figment of the ancient imagination?

PROMETHEUS. Look well at me; touch these hands. See whether I reallyexist. 

AHASVERUS. Then Moses lied to me. You are Prometheus, creator of thefirst men?

PROMETHEUS. That was my crime. 

AHASVERUS. Yes, it was your crime, --an artifice of hell; your crime wasinexpiable. You should have remained forever, bound and devoured, --you, the origin of the ills that afflict me. I lacked compassion, it istrue; but you, who gave me life, perverse divinity, were the cause ofall. 

PROMETHEUS. Approaching death confuses your reason. 

AHASVERUS. Yes, it is you; you have the Olympic forehead, strong andbeautiful Titan; it is you indeed . . . Are these your chains? I see uponthem no trace of your tears. 

PROMETHEUS. I wept them for your humankind. 

AHASVERUS. And humanity wept far more because of your crime. 

PROMETHEUS. Hear me, last of men, last of ingrates!

AHASVERUS. What need have I of your words? I desire your groans, perverse divinity. Here are the chains. See how I raise them; listen tothe clank of the iron . . . Who unbound you just now?

PROMETHEUS. Hercules. 

AHASVERUS. Hercules . . . See whether he will repeat his service now thatyou are to be bound anew. 

PROMETHEUS. You are raving. 

AHASVERUS. The sky gave you your first punishment, now earth will giveyou the second and the last. Not even Hercules will ever be able tobreak these fetters. See how I brandish them in the air, like feathers!for I represent the power of millennial despairs. All humanity isconcentrated within me. Before I sink into the abyss, I will write uponthis stone the epitaph of a world. I will summon the eagle, and it willcome; I will tell it that the last man, on departing from life, leaveshim a god as a gift. 

PROMETHEUS. Poor, ignorant wretch, who rejects a throne! No, you cannotreject it. 

AHASVERUS. Now it is you who are raving. Kneel, and let me manacle yourarms. So, 'tis well you will resist no more. Bend this way; now yourlegs . . . 

PROMETHEUS. Have done, have done. It is the passions of earth turningupon me; but I, who am not a human being, do not know ingratitude. Youwill not be spared a jot of your destiny; it will be fulfilled to theletter. You yourself will be the new Hercules. I, who announced theglory of the other, now proclaim yours; and you will be no lessgenerous than he. 

AHASVERUS. Are you mad?

PROMETHEUS. The truth unknown to man is the madness of him whoproclaims it. Proceed, and have done. 

AHASVERUS. Glory pays nothing, and dies. 

PROMETHEUS. This glory will never die. Have done; have done; show thesharp 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 notflee, --so that I shall be here on your return. Tell you all? I havealready told you that a new race shall people the earth, formed of thechosen spirits of the extinct humanity; the multitude of others willperish. A noble family, all-seeing and powerful, will be the perfectsynthesis of the divine and the human. The times will be others, butbetween 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 despisedof 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 boundby a tradition, and none can speak of one to the other as you can. Thusthere will be no gap between the two humanities. The perfect willproceed from the imperfect, and your lips will tell the new world itsorigin. You will relate to the new humanity all the ancient good andevil. And thus will you live anew like the tree whose dead branches arelopped off, only the flourishing ones being preserved, but here growthwill 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; butequally just is the glorious remission of my sin. Shall I live? Imyself? A new and better life? No, you are jesting with me. 

PROMETHEUS. Very well, then; leave me. You will return some day, whenthis vast heaven will be open to let the spirits of the new lifedescend. 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 oftime, 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 havechanged. Then your retina will gaze upon the sun without peril, for inthe 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 oldScriptures is nothing but this final, perfect world. There you willgreet David and the prophets. There will you tell to the astoundedlisteners, not only the great events of the extinct world, but also theills they will never know: sickness, old age, grief, egotism, hypocrisy, abhorrent vanity, imbecility, and the rest. The soul, likethe 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. Magnificentheaven, more beautiful than the tents of Caesar. I shall behold youforever; you will receive my thoughts, as before; you will grant meclear days, and friendly nights . . . 

PROMETHEUS. Dawn upon dawn. 

AHASVERUS. Ah, speak on, speak on. Tell me everything. Let me unbindthese chains . . . 

PROMETHEUS. Loosen them, new Hercules, last man of the old world, whoshall be the first of the new. Such is your destiny; neither you norI, --nobody can alter it. You go farther than your Moses. From the topof 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 withthe 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 inwhich I have dwelt. Where one life heaped mire, another life will placea halo. Speak, speak on . . . Speak on . . . (_He continues to dream. Thetwo eagles draw near. _)

FIRST EAGLE. Ay, ay, ay! Alas for this last man; he is dying, yet hedreams 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 Riode Janeiro possessed. He was a sort of Hercules with huge limbs, butotherwise stupid as a post. His companions had nicknamed him Hardheadbecause of his obstinate character. Once an idea had penetrated hisskull it would stick there like a gimlet and the devil himself couldn'tpull it out. Because of this trait there arose quarrels, altercationson points of the smallest significance, which the man's acquaintanceswould purposely bring up, knowing his evil humor. But Felix, despitehis vigorous and sanguine constitution, was by no means quick to anger, nor immediately responsive to injury; on the contrary he wasexceedingly patient in his vindictiveness. For the longest time hewould ruminate upon his vengeance, most astutely, and he would carry itout at the moment when he believed himself perfectly secure. Oh! Hisruses were not of very great finesse and required very little talent;but by dint of considering and reconsidering the case, by dint ofwaiting patiently for the propitious opportunity to present itself, hefinally would play some evil trick upon his comrades. So that nobodyliked him. 

Felix had married, but his wife did not long survive. Just long enoughto leave him a son and a daughter, who grew up knowing littlerestraint, chumming around with all the good-for-nothings of thevicinity, plaguing all the neighbors, who on their part, were not slowto punish the rascals. Thus several years went by. The son became anotorious character, the daughter an impudent, cynical little runaboutwho, on certain occasions, would fill their rickety abode with herchatter about affairs concerning the "man" of so-and-so orsuch-and-such. And thus things were going when the old man took it intohis head to fall ill. An excruciating rheumatism attacked both hislegs, rendering him incapable of moving about, and confining him to anold, lame armchair that was balanced by a complicated arrangement ofold boxes that could never be got to remain steady. The illness becamechronic. The daughter helped out the finances of the house with herearnings as laundry-woman . . . And perhaps by earnings of a differentnature. Anyway, they got along. The old fellow, willy-nilly, spent hisdays invariably riveted to his armchair, groaning with pain at theleast movement, swearing, fretting and fuming, despairing of life. And, since his daughter simply refused from the very beginning to let himhave even a drop of brandy, he was perforce cured of his vice. 

Just about this time there happened to them the worst of all possibleadventures. The son, whom the father had not seen for several weeks, one fine day attacked a peaceful citizen and, with a terrible knifethrust in the stomach, despatched him to a better world; as to whichevent circumstances seemed so contrary that the son allowed himself tobe arrested. 

The old man was in the habit of reading his gazette religiously, fromthe first line to the last; thus he learned the news. And it wasthrough the same newspaper that he followed the trial and learned ofhis son's conviction. This made him furious, not so much because of thesentence as because of a special circumstance. The policeman who hadarrested his son was--just think of it!--Bernardo, --yes, Bernardo, hisown neighbor--the same chap who would greet him daily with the ironicwords: "How are things, Felix old boy? And when will you be ready for awaltz?"

Even on the day of imprisonment and during those that followed Bernardohad permitted himself these witty remarks. 

Bernardo was a _cabra_ of Bahai, a pretentious mulatto whose enormoushead of hair, carefully parted in the middle into two flourishingmasses, was kept so only through the services of odorous pomade thatcost four sous a pot. He had been, in his day, a dishonest politicalhenchman, well-known for his exploits; then, supported by the liberalleader whose election he had worked for, he escaped prison and enteredthe police service. At that time police officers were called "bats", --asobriquet that troubled Bernardo very little. And it had been he--whatanger flashed in old Felix's eyes as he thought of it!--he, whose pastactivities would well bear examination, he who had arrested Felix'sson!. . . 

From that moment one preoccupation alone filled Felix's hours--vengeance!This hatred dominated his existence and became the only power thatcould vanquish the ever-growing misery of his broken-down body. Themere thought that he could not grow well, while the _cabra_ would dailycontinue to live in insolent impunity, was enough to give himconvulsions 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 instupid impotence. 

At times he would wish to call Bernardo and with thunderous violencepour 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 towhat method of vengeance to pursue, and in order not to let his hatredbetray itself, he spoke to the policeman as if nothing had happened. Nevertheless there was one thing that puzzled him greatly: his daughterhad said nothing to him about the entire affair. Did she know nothingabout it? It was almost impossible that the mulatto, with hischatterbox habits, had not spoken of the matter. Had his daughterfeared to shock him with the news? This was all the less probable sinceshe had never had any particular love for him. Scarcely did a day passthat she did not call him a "good-for-nothing, " "a lazy lout, " andother similar tendernesses. So he breathed not a word, and continued toruminate upon his vengeance. 

Months rolled on. Far from getting better the illness increased. Assoon as the old fellow tried to move, horrible pains seized him atevery joint. His daughter maltreated him, and at the height of hisattacks she would reply to his complaints that he'd do better if heleft the house, and she even threatened to send him to the hospital. Itwas now June. The weather was one long succession of heavy rains; theinvalid suffered atrociously from the cold and the damp, and hisdaughter, disgruntled at the bad weather, which interfered with herwashing, 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 inhis brain, and slowly, during the months, ever since he had learnedthat his case was incurable, his project had absorbed his entire mentalactivity, --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 hadleft, closing the door, as was her habit, and had not returned atnight. The old man was parched with thirst and his physical torture haddoubled. He resolved upon quick action. 

In the morning, --it might have been about seven o'clock--his daughterreturned, 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 awaysomebody else's man. " And the two women came to blows, rousing theentire neighborhood. They tried at last to separate the combatants, butit would have been easier to break them to bits, so fiercely did theystruggle 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 fromhome, under the pretext of a special patrol; he returned, ignorant ofthe 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 policemanentered. When he had come near, Felix said to him in a low voice thathe had something very serious to tell him. But first of all he insistedthat Bernardo go and bring his large knife. 

"Why that, Felix? What do you want to do with a knife?" asked theother. 

The old man smiled mysteriously. "Quick, my boy, I'll tell youafterwards, 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 hewas back with the knife, which he gave to the invalid. 

"Now, " continued the latter, "go and close the door, so that nobodywill hear. Close it well, and turn the key. "

Bernardo felt some mistrust at all this mystery, but knowing forcertain 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 inyour pocket. " And the old man drew from his pocket an ancient nickelwatch 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, neverthelessdoing as he was told. Then, seeing in what manner the invalid hadgrasped the knife he discreetly withdrew a few paces. 

Well, almost immediately Felix made a sudden movement that caused hispain to increase anew, and he began to groan, to utter most terriblecries, 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 theinvalid would kill him if he should attempt to approach. He thereforeagain stepped back a few paces and awaited developments, persuaded thathe had a lunatic in front of him. The groaning became louder andlouder, so that it was easily to be heard outside. Finally, the_cabra_, tired of waiting, said, "I'll be back right away, Felix. " Andhe was about to leave. 

Brusquely, the old man uncovered his own breast, and with a rapidmovement, right over the heart, he thrust in the blade with all hismight, up to the hilt. Not a drop of blood spurted out, the thick bladeobstructing the wound. His face convulsed with an expression ofexcruciating torment; his hanging arms grew rigid. 

The officer rushed to the door, opened it, called for help and returnedto pull the knife from the wound, and to see whether it was yetpossible to save the unfortunate man. Men and women, wildly excited, ran up to the house crying loudly, and, seeing this man with a longknife whence the blood was dripping, seeing also the pierced breast ofold Felix, the whole populace rushed upon Bernardo, disarmed him, crying "Kill him! Kill him!" Bernardo was punched and kicked andcudgelled from one infuriated person to the other in the crowd, and ledto the police-station by a multitude which every moment waxed greaterand more threatening. 

Several months later the trial came to an end. Bernardo was sentencedto hard labor for life. Nobody would believe his story. The proofs wereoverwhelming. Had he not been caught red-handed? The presence of thenickel-watch in his pocket indicated sufficiently that the motive ofthe crime was robbery. The vengeance of old Felix had been wellcalculated: 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 longsleepless 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 ofthe ravine, turtle-doves and starlings were circling in the air, makinga 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--, gravethoughts which were clouding his spirit. A pigeon took to flight, thenanother, and still another; he turned his head, following them with hisgaze until they were out of sight, and then returned to his melancholycontemplation. 

 [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 agitatedmanner, cooing loudly; they circled above the dwelling, sought thetrees, alighted on the thatch of the cabin, descended to earth inspiral flight. 

Some seemed to be getting their bearings, to seek a route: they gazedacross the clear stretches of space and penetrated to the distanthorizons. Others would fly off, describing vast circles, and wouldreturn to the pigeon-house. Then all would come together as if for adiscussion, to plan their departure. 

Some, undecided, opened their wings as if about to fly away, but soonwould close them again. Still others would dart off, only to come backaimlessly, and the noise increased to a hubbub of hurried leaving. 

The Indian gazed fixedly. Well he knew that the life of his little sonwas at stake, and depended upon the decision of the birds. "When thepigeons 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 tospeak, but I know well the meaning of what I see. "

The _caboclo_ slung the spade across his shoulder and walked slowly upthe road that led to the plantation, through the wet hay which exhaleda piquant odor. 

Some hens were clucking, hidden in the high grass, and a little ribbonof water which flowed gently along sparkled here and there through theopenings in the brushwood. 

Tiburcio, head bowed, spade on his shoulder, could not shake off thedeep impression that had been made upon him by the sudden migration ofthe 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 alongnicely; their little son was in good health and they, too, knew noillness. But now the warning of the evil omen was confirmed. Thepigeons which he had himself brought up were flying away. They wereleaving, 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 poorwoman was surely weeping. 

Within him he felt a mute explosion of hatred and revolt against theungrateful birds. Never had he had the courage to kill a single one ofthem. He lived only for the purpose of keeping the pigeon-house inorder, thinking only of making it larger so that it might accommodatemore pairs. And the little child, was it not he who crushed the milletfor the fledglings, who climbed the mango-tree, going from branch tobranch to see whether there wasn't some crack through which the raincame in? Who knows? Perhaps the pigeons were leaving their dwellingbecause they no longer saw him?

He shrugged his shoulders and continued on his way. As he crossed thedam his heart palpitated wildly. He stopped. The water, held back inits course, threw back a motionless reflection of him. But although helooked down upon it he saw not his image; his thoughts were entirelywith the little child who, burning with fever, was in delirium. 

He chose a side path. The millet stems were so high that he disappearedwithin them with a crumpling of dry leaves. The soft ant-hills which itwas his daily custom to level off failed to attract his attention. Hewalked straight on. Parrots flew by, chattering, with their green wingsshining 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 itstoys;--there was even now a boot of wild sugar-cane. But already thegrass was beginning to invade the abandoned shelter. . . . For a month thelittle child had not visited the place. When the father came to thefield of manioc he sat down, bent almost in two. The spade weighed uponhis 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 longjourney. He sat down upon a hillock and began to trace lines upon theearth, with a distraught air. 

At times it seemed as if he heard the echo of his wife's voice. Hewould raise his head and strain his ears to catch the sound. But onlythe rustling of the leaves stirred by the breeze and the chirping ofthe insects in the sun came to him. All earth seemed to perspire. Adiaphanous vapor rose tremblingly from the hot soil; the leaves hunglanguidly, 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 stillanother. They were leaving . . . They were leaving!. . . A beating ofwings, --more on the way. They would never return, never! They werefleeing in horror, feeling the approach of death. 

For a long time he gazed about him, but could see only the rich verdurewaving to the wind in the warm transparency of the atmosphere. Heshould have taken his child to town as soon as the illness hadappeared. But who could have foretold this? He raised his eyes toheaven and they lingered upon the luminous azure; then came anotherpigeon. He shook his head and, striking his fist against his thigh, slung his spade back upon his shoulder and turned in the direction ofhis 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 towhat to do. "

He looked at the pigeon-house, saw that it was deserted, and ominouslysilent. As evening fell Tiburcio sat down upon the threshold of thecabin and began to smoke, waiting for the pigeons. The grasshopperswere shrilling; all the birds who had their nests in the tree nearbyretired and, as it was still light, they lingered in the branches totrill their good-night cadences. 

The sky grew pale. The landscape was veiled in a light mist. Theevening breeze scattered the gentle odor of lilies. Not very far off adog barked now and then. At times a grave lowing saddened the silence. Tiburcio did not remove his eyes from the pigeon-house, unless it wasto pierce the shadows and try to discover in the distance one of thebirds. Perhaps some of them would return. 

Where could they find a better shelter? The forest was full of dangersand domestic pigeons could scarcely live in the brushwood. What otherpigeon-roost could have attracted them? If he had but followed the lineof their flight . . . Some had taken the direction of the fields, othershad flown towards the mountains, and there was no sign of anyreturning. 

It was now quite dark. Joanna lighted a candle. Already the frogs werecroaking in the marshes. A star shone in the sky. Tiburcio fixed hisgaze upon it and began to pray in low tones. The silence was scarcelybroken by the murmuring of the water as it ran and broke over thestones in the ravine not far away, just behind the cabin. 

Tiburcio sighed, arose, leaned against the jamb and lacked courage togo inside. Joanna came near the door. 

"And now?"

"The same thing, " he replied. 

He stepped down, called her, and together they went towards theterrace. Near the mango-tree, directly under the pigeon-house, theystopped, and the Indian, as if in fear of being heard by the child, asked softly, "Joanna, don't you know any prayers for this?" And hepointed to the deserted pigeon-roost. 

"Only Lina knows, " she answered. 

"She can pronounce the proper spells?"

"So they say. "

Tiburcio stood as if in a dream. Suddenly, in a firm voice, heannounced, "I am going to her. "

"Now?"

"Certainly!. . . Haven't you just said that she was a sorceress?"

"I have never seen it, Tiburcio. . . . That's what people say. "

"But you?"

"I? No. And I am afraid that it is too late. You have seen your selfhow far gone he is! He is no longer interested in anything. I moveabout, I speak, I go here and there, I come back again into theroom, --but it is all nothing to him. Ah! God in heaven!"

Her voice died out Suddenly she melted into tears. Tiburcio withdrewand commenced to pace slowly up and down the terrace. The white moonwas rising. The fields became less obscure and, in the light, theshadows of the trees, very black, stretched across the ground. 

"Patience, dear woman, patience!"

The strident crickets were chirping. The _caboclo_ murmured, "Yes, Iknow . . . "

Of a sudden Joanna shuddered. Quivering she turned towards the cabin, from whose wide door shone a ray of livid light; for a moment herastonished gaze lingered and then, with a bound she was gone. 

Tiburcio, motionless, without understanding what his wife had justdone, quietly awaited her return, when a piercing cry rang out. The_caboclo_ rushed to the cabin and made for the room where the candlewas burning. The woman, on her knees before the little bed, leaningover the child, was sobbing desperately. 

"What has happened, Joanna?"

She gave a hoarse cry and threw her arms across the corpse of her son. 

"Look! It's all over!"

She bent down, her face brushed a cheek that was burning; her tremblinghands felt a little body that was still aflame. She touched the sunkenchest, where the ribs showed through like laths, and the hollowabdomen. 

"Listen to his heart, Tiburcio!"

He could only reply, "It is all over!"

The mother arose with a leap, disfigured, her hair dishevelled, hereyes sparkling. She tried to speak, stretched her hands out to herhusband, but fell limp upon a basket and, bowed down, bathed in tears, she began to repeat the name of her son with an infinite tendernessthat was rent by sobs. 

"My Luiz! My little Luiz! But a moment ago living, oh blessed Virgin!"

Tiburcio turned away and in the room, before the table, he stopped, hiseyes wandering, his lips trembling, the tears rolling in big drops downhis bony face. Joanna left the chamber, wavering as if drunk, andseeing him, threw herself into his arms; he held her without uttering aword, and they stood thus in embrace for a long time, in the dark, narrow room where the crickets were chirping. 

Joanna went back to the chamber. Tiburcio remained leaning against thetable, his eyes fixed upon the candle which flickered in the breeze. Slowly the light of the moon came in, white, climbing upon the walls. He arose with a sigh, went to the door, sat down upon the threshold, lighted his pipe and looked leisurely out upon the country, which wasgrowing brighter beneath the moon. Suddenly it seemed to him that heheard the cooing of pigeons. Above, the stars were shining, the treetops glittered in the moonlight. Could it be an illusion?

Motionless, he concentrated his attention. The cooing continued. Hearose impetuously, walked straight to the pigeon-roost and leanedagainst the trunk of the mango-tree. 

"Could it be the pigeons who were returning after the passing ofdeath?" he began to mutter in fury, replying to his thoughts. "Now it'stoo late! A curse upon them!"

A beating of wings, a tender cooing, and little cries came from thepigeon-house. There was no doubt now. He went forward and, from themiddle of the terrace watched the pigeon-house, walking resolutelytowards the cabin. 

Joanna was sobbing hopelessly. He took the candle, went to the kitchen, and seeing the axe in a corner he seized it, still muttering. He thenturned back to the terrace and, having reached the mango-tree, rolledup the sleeves of his coarse shirt so that he might swing the axe. 

At the first blow against the post which supported the pigeon-house thebirds grew still. Tiburcio redoubled his efforts. A crack now weakenedthe structure, but still it resisted. He leaned the axe against thetrunk and, grasping the branches, raised himself to the top of thetree. From there he supported himself between two boughs and gave thelarge box a furious kick. The pigeon-roost fell shattered to theground. 

Two pigeons flew off in great fright, dazed. Uncertain of theirdirection in the clearness of the night, they lit upon the roof of thehut. 

The _caboclo_ slid down lightly along the trunk and saw two littlebodies who were whining, staggering, dragging themselves along. Theywere two little pigeons. He bent over them, took them in his hands andbegan to examine them. They were ugly, still without wings, having onlya thin down to cover the muscles of their soft, wrinkled bodies. TheIndian turned them over this way and that in his shrivelled hands. Hefelt their fragile bones, and the little things struggled to fly away, moving the stumps of their wings; they stretched out their necks andwhined. 

Gnashing his teeth, Tiburcio squeezed the fledglings and crushed them. Their tender bones cracked like bits of wood. The blood gushed forthand trickled, warm, through the tightened fingers of the man. 

Under the impulse of his fury he threw them to the ground; theyflattened out, soft as rotten fruit. And the _caboclo_, growling tohimself, trampled upon them. The parent-birds were cooing dolorouslyupon the thatched roof, flying hither and thither. 

Joanna, embracing her dead child, was still sobbing when Tiburcioentered the chamber. He stopped before the little bed, and looked down. Of a sudden the woman shook, arose with a start, seized her husband'sarm, her eyes distended and her mouth wide open, her head bending overas if to hear voices, faraway sounds. 

"What is it, Joanna? What is the matter with you?"

In terror she stammered reply. "The pigeons, dear husband. Don't youhear them?"

It was their sad cooing that came from the roof of the house. "They arereturning! Who knows? He is yet warm!" she cried. 

And in the heart of the woman arose a great hope. 

Tiburcio shrugged his shoulders. 

"Now it's their turn to mourn!" he answered. "They are sobbing, likeus. It's a pair that remained behind because of the little ones. Idashed the pigeon-house to earth, I have killed the fledglings. See!"

And he showed his bloody hands. 

"They flew away; they're on the house. Do you want to see?"

He went out; she followed. They walked to the terrace. Tiburcio pointedto the ruined pigeon-house. Then he grasped the crushed bodies of thelittle birds. "Look!"

Without breathing a word Joanna looked on. In her horror she hadstopped weeping. She gazed upon her husband, whose burning eyes flashedfire. He threw the first little pigeon upon the roof bellowing, "'T iswell!"

He threw the second. 

"'T is well!" he repeated. 

The pigeons, frightened, flew off into the dark foliage. 

"'T is well, " he said once more. 

Joanna, dumb, terrified, could not remove her eyes from her husband, who was now crying with sobs, his opened hands stained with blood. 

"Come, dear husband. It was the will of God. Our little son is inheaven!" And slowly she heartened him. They entered their cabin and, before the pallet of the dead child, the tears gushed from their eyes, while, on the roof above, the pigeons, who had returned, were cooingdolorously. 

AUNT ZEZE'S TEARS

By Carmen Dolores

(Emilia Moncorva Bandeira de Mello, 1852-1910)

Pale and thin, for eighteen years she had lived with her youngestsister, who had married very early and now possessed five children: twoyoung ladies of marriageable age, a third still in short dresses, andtwo little boys. 

Maria-José, whose nickname was Zézé, had never been beautiful orwinning. Upon her father's death it was thought best that she should goto live with her sister Engracigna's family. Here she led a monotonousexistence, helping to bring up her nephews and nieces, who were born inthat young and happy household with a regularity that brooked smallintervals between the births. 

A long, pointed nose disfigured her face, and her lips, extremely thin, looked like a pale crack. Her thoughtful gaze alone possessed a certainmelancholy attractiveness. But even here, her eyes, protruding too farfor the harmony of the lines upon her face seemed always to be red, andher brows narrow and sparse. 

Of late, an intricate network of wrinkles as fine as hairs, had formedat the corner of her eyes. From her nose, likewise, two furrows ranalong the transparent delicacy of her skin and reached either side ofher mouth. When she smiled, these wrinkles would cover her countenancewith a mask of premature age, and threatened soon to disfigure herentirely. And yet, from habit, and through passive obedience toroutine, Maria-José continued to dress like a young girl of eighteen, in brightly colored gowns, thin waists and white hats that ill becameher frail and oldish face. 

She would remain for a long time in painful indecision when it was amatter of picking out some piece of goods that was of too bright a redor blue, --as if instinctively she understood the disharmony of thesehues with her age, whose rapid oncoming they moreover placed in all themore noticeable contrast. And at such times Engracigna and herdaughters would say to her with a vehemence whose effect they littleguessed, "Why, Zézé! Buy something and be done with it!. . . How silly!Do you want to dress like a widow? What a notion!"

And at bottom they meant it. 

None of them saw Maria-José as she really was. Living with her day byday had served to efface the actual appearance of the faded old maid. For, in the minds of the mother and her daughters, who were moreover ofa frivolous and indifferent sort, Zézé had grown to be the type, veryvague, to be sure, but the eternal type of young girl of marriagableyears who always should be well dressed and smiling. 

When she would be out walking with her nieces, of sixteen and seventeenyears, who wore the same clothes as she herself did, but whose gracefuland lively charm became their gay colors of youth so well, Zézé'sintelligence saw only too plainly the contrast between her and them;she would hold aloof from the laughing set, morose, wounded, as ifoppressed by an unspeakable shame. 

Ah! Who can depict the secret chagrin of an old maid who sees pass byin useless monotony her dark, loveless, despairing days, without hopeeven of some event of personal interest, while about her moves the busywhirl of happier creatures whose life has but one goal, who feelemotions and tendernesses, and who look upon her simply as an obscureaccessory in the household's affairs! They all loved her, of course, but not one of them suspected that she, too, could cherish thoseaspirations that are common to all human beings. 

Her self-denial seemed to be a most natural thing; indeed, they hardlyconsidered her in the light of a living person; she was no longer ofany consequence. 

This was an attitude that satisfied the general egotism of the family, and to which they all had grown accustomed, never suspecting thegrievous aspect of her sacrifice which was hidden by a sentiment ofproud dignity. 

So, when they would go to the theatre, and the box held onlyfive--Engracigna, her husband, Fabio, and the three youngladies, --Maria-José knew beforehand that her sister, snugly wrapped inher opera-cloak, would come to her and say gently, in that purringvoice of hers: "You'll stay at home with the children tonight, won'tyou, Zézé? Little Paul isn't very well, and I wouldn't think of leavinghim with anybody else. . . . "

And she would remain behind, without betraying the revolt within herwhich, upon each occasion of these evidences of selfishness, would makethe anemic blood in her veins tremble with agitation. 

Alone in the dining-room she would ply her needle mechanically, whileher nephews would amuse themselves with the toys scattered upon thetable, --colored pictures and lead soldiers. Every other moment theywould call her. 

"Aunt Zézé, look at George pinching me!"

"I am not! Paul hit me first!. . . "

And the good aunt would quiet them. Then, after both had been put tosleep in their little twin beds, she would rest her elbows upon thewindow-sill of her gloomy old-maid's room, and placing both handsbeneath her sharp chin, her gaze directed towards heaven, she wouldlose herself in contemplation of the stars that shone in the limpidsky, less lonely, surely, than she upon earth. In vain did her eyesseek in the eyes of another that expression of sympathy and tendernesswhich alone would console her. . . . 

The truth is that Maria-José was suffering from the disappointment ofunrequited passion. She had fallen in love with Monjardin, a poet andgreat friend of her brother-in-law, Fabio. Monjardin came to the houseevery Sunday. 

Older than she, almost forty, but having preserved all theattractiveness of youth, --a black moustache, a vigorous, yet gracefulfigure, eyes still bright, charming and wide-awake, --Monjardin, withoutknowing it, had conquered Zézé. 

This had come about in a rather curious manner. Finding theconversation of Fabio's wife and daughters too commonplace, Monjardin, when he would recite some of his poems or tell some story connectedwith his literary life, preferred to address Maria-José, whom he saw tobe of a serious and impressive nature. 

"Let's have another poem, please, Mr. Monjardin!" she would ask insupplicating tone. "For instance, that one you call 'Regrets. ' Youknow?"

And then he would describe in his verse the grief of a heart, disillusioned and broken by the cruelties of fate, that evoked in vainthe remembrance of yesterday's lost loves, vanished in the mists ofeternal despair. 

He recited these bitter griefs in a strong, healthy man's voice, erectin the center of the parlor, looking mechanically, distractedly atMaria-José with his dreamy eyes; the concentrated effort of his memorybrought to his face an involuntary immobility which Maria-José, mostdeliciously touched, drank in. 

The poet had announced that he had written a poem which he would reciteat Zézé's anniversary dinner. The date for this was but a few daysdistant, and ever since the poet's announcement the whole family hadtaken to teasing the old maid, christening her "the muse ofinspiration, " and asking her when the wedding would take place. . . . 

She smiled ingenuously; at such times her face would even take on anair of unusual happiness; her features grew animated, less wrinkled andmore firm. 

On the day of the celebration Maria-José came out of her room radiantwith hope. At the belt of her white dress bloomed a rose; a littleblood, set pulsing by her agitated heart, brought a feeble color to hermarble cheeks, from which now protruded her long nose in a manner lessdispleasing than usual. 

"See, mamma, " remarked one of the nieces, "doesn't Zézé look like ayoung girl today?"

They dined amidst merry chatter. Seated directly across from Monjardin, Maria-José, hiding her glances behind the fruit-bowls that covered thetable, looked at him furtively without surfeit. Her poor heart beat asif it would burst, waiting in agonized suspense for the poem in whichthe poet, without doubt, was to declare his intimate feelings for her. Monjardin had already pointed to his pocket as a token that he had theverses with him, and Zézé had trembled with gratification as shebashfully lowered her long face. 

Champagne sparkled in the glasses and toasts were given. Several guestsof distinction spoke first, then followed the hosts and theirchildren, --frolicsome little things. Finally Monjardin arose andunfolded a manuscript, asking permission to declaim the verses which hehad composed in honor of Maria-José, the central figure of theoccasion. The guests greeted his remarks with noisy and enthusiasticapprobation. 

"Hear! Hear!"

Engracigna and her daughters leaned over and cast malicious glances inthe direction of Maria-José, but she was paying no attention to them. Her ears were buzzing; it seemed that everything was turning round. 

Monjardin, the center of all eyes, made pompous preparation; he pulleddown his vest, arranged his sleeves and, in sonorous, cadenced voicebegan to recite his alexandrines, scanning the lines impeccably. 

His poem opened with a eulogy of the ineffable virtue, compounded ofself-abnegation and chastity, that distinguished the angelic creaturewho, with her white tutelary wings, watched over the happiness of hisdear friend's love nest. He then recalled that the date of this daycommemorated the happy birth of a being of immaculate purity, Maria-José, a veritable saint who had renounced all her own aspirationsso that she might consecrate herself entirely to the duties of hersister's family; gentle figure of the mother-guardian, who would soonbe the beloved grandmother sharing with her sister the joys of youngerhouseholds which would soon be formed, offsprings of that home whichher devoted tenderness as aunt and sister at present cultivated. As hecame to a close, the poet raised his cup of sparkling wine and, inexalted voice, drank to the health of Zézé amidst the loud huzzahs ofall present. 

"Long live Aunt Zézé! Hurrah for Aunt Zézé!" cried the children, glassin hand, while the nieces laughed loudly, blushing to the ears, forthey had understood very well the poet's reference to future "youngerhouseholds. "

Fabio and his wife, their eyes somewhat brightened by the strongchampagne, proposed in turn their toast to Zézé. 

"Here's to Zézé and the eighteen happy years we've lived together!. . . "

Maria-José, as soon as she had seized the significance of Monjardin'sverses, had grown deathly pale; stricken by sudden disillusionment, shefelt a glacial chill overwhelm her body to the very marrow; she fearedthat she would faint straightway and provide a spectacle for theguests, who were all drinking her health, their eyes focussed upon her. A veil of tears spread before her sight. . . . In vain she tried torepress them, to force a smile of thanks upon her face. The smilewrinkled into a dolorous grimace; she succeeded only in convulsing hercontracted visage with the sobs that she sought to restrain. Overcomeat last, humiliated, powerless, she broke into tears, and thisunforeseen denouement put an end at once to all the pleasure of thedinner. 

"Zézé! Zézé! What ails you?. . . "

Engracigna had rushed to her side in alarm; everyone rose, seeking thereason for the outburst; they surrounded the poor creature, whose headhad sunk upon the table, in the midst of the rose petals, the fruitsand the glasses which were strewn in charming confusion. 

"What is the trouble?. . . "

A nervous attack, perhaps?. . . Confusion produced in her by the touchingpoem?. . . 

Finally they raised Maria-José's head and bathed it in cool water;whereupon the face of the poor old maid stood revealed in all theugliness that her spasms of convulsive weeping cast over it, with herlarge aquiline nose, her protruding eyes and her livid lips . . . 

And now Monjardin drew near. Delicately raising the icy fingers ofMaria-José he lifted them to the edge of his perfumed moustache andplaced upon them a grateful kiss; then, turning to Engracigna'sdaughters he said, with a solemn, self-complacent tone, "Aunt Zézé'stears are the most beautiful homage that could be rendered to my poorverses. "