UC-NRLF 
 
LIBRARY 
 
 IIVEKSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE PORTUGUESE 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 BY 
 
 ISAAC GOLDBERG 
 
 Author of "Studies in Spanish -American Literature," etc. 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY 
 1921 
 
 19 r rV4,lC!DADV 
 
Copyright, 1921, by 
 THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY 
 
 Boston, Mass., U. S. A. 
 The Four Seas Press 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PRELIMINARY REMARKS .... 7 
 V THE ATTENDANT'S CONFESSION . 43 
 
 BY JOAQUIM MARIA MACHADO DE ASSIS 
 
 V' THE FORTUNE-TELLER .... 65 
 
 BY JOAQUIM MARIA MACHADO DE ASSIS 
 
 LIFE . 87 
 
 BY JOAQUIM MARIA MACHADO DE ASSIS 
 
 THE VENGEANCE OF FELIX ... 107 
 
 BY JOSE 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 SPANISH 
 LANGUAGES, HARVARD UNIVERSITY 
 
SOME INFORMAL PRELIMINARY 
 REMARKS 
 
 THE noted Brazilian critic, Jose Veris- 
 simo, in a short but important essay 
 on the deficiencies of his country's 
 letters, has expressed serious doubt as to 
 whether there exists a genuinely Brazilian lit 
 erature. "I do not know," he writes, "whether 
 the existence of an entirely indepen 
 dent literature is possible without an entirely 
 independent language." In this sense Veris- 
 simo would deny the existence of a Swiss, or 
 a Belgian, literature. In this sense, too, it 
 was no doubt once possible, with no small 
 measure of justification, to deny the exist 
 ence of an American, as distinguished from 
 an English, literature. Yet, despite the sub 
 tle psychic bonds that link identity of speech 
 to similarity of thought, the environment 
 (which helps to shape pronounciation as well 
 as vocabulary and the language itself) is, 
 from the standpoint of literature, little re 
 moved from language as a determining fac 
 tor. Looking at the question, however, from 
 the purely linguistic standpoint, it is impor 
 tant to remember that the Spanish of Span- 
 7 
 
8 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 ish America is more different from the parent 
 tongue than is the English of this country 
 from that of the mother nation. Similar 
 changes have taken place in the Portuguese 
 spoken in Brazil. Yet who would now pre 
 tend, on the basis of linguistic similarity, to 
 say that there is no United States literature 
 as distinguished from English literature? Af 
 ter all, is it not national life, as much as na 
 tional language, that makes literature? And 
 by an inversion of Verissimo's standard may 
 we not come face to face with a state of 
 affairs in which different literatures exist 
 within the same tongue? Indeed, is not 
 such a conception as the "great American 
 novel" rendered quite futile in the United 
 States by the fact that from the literary 
 standpoint we are several countries rather 
 than one? 
 
 The question is largely academic. At the 
 same time it is interesting to notice the more 
 assertive standpoint lately adopted by the 
 charming Mexican poet, Luis G. Urbina, in 
 his recent "La Vida Literaria de Mexico," 
 where, without undue national pride he 
 claims the right to use the adjective Mexican 
 in qualifying the letters of his remarkable 
 country. Urbina shows that different physi 
 ological and psychological types have been 
 
PRELIMINARY REMARKS 9 
 
 produced in his part of the New World ; why, 
 then, should the changes stop there? Nor 
 have they ceased at that point, as Senor Ur- 
 bina's delightful and informative book re 
 veals. So, too, whatever the merits of the 
 academic question involved, a book like Alen- 
 car's "Guarany," for instance, could not have 
 been written outside of Brazil; neither could 
 Verissimo's own "Scenes from Amazon Life." 
 
 II. 
 
 Brazilian literature has been divided into 
 four main periods. The first extends from 
 the age of discovery and exploration to the 
 middle of the eighteenth century; the second 
 includes the second half of the eighteenth 
 century; the third comprises the years of the 
 nineteenth century up to 1840, while that 
 date inaugurates the triumph of Romanti 
 cism over pseudo-Classicism. Romanticism, 
 as in other countries, gave way in turn to 
 realism and various other movements cur 
 rent in those turbulent decades. Sometimes 
 the changes came not as a natural phase of 
 literary evolution, but rather as the conse 
 quence of pure imitation. Thus, Verissimo 
 tells us, Symbolism, in Brazil, was a matter 
 of intentional parroting, in many cases unin- 
 
10 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 telligent. It did not correspond to a move 
 ment of reaction, mystical, sensualist, in 
 dividualist, socialistic or anarchistic, as in 
 Europe. 
 
 Two chief impulses were early present in 
 Brazilian letters: that of Portuguese litera 
 ture and that of the Jesuit colleges. At 
 the time of the discovery of Brazil only 
 Italy, Spain, Prance and Portugal possessed 
 a literary life. Portugal, indeed, as the 
 Brazilian critic points out, was then in its 
 golden period. It boasted chroniclers like 
 Fernao Lopes, novelists like Bernardim Ri- 
 beiro, historians like Joao de Barros, and 
 dramatists of the stamp of Gil Vicente. The 
 Jesuit colleges, too, were followed by other 
 orders, spreading Latin culture and main 
 taining communication between the interior 
 and the important centers. It is natural, 
 then, that early letters in Brazil should have 
 been Portuguese not only in language, but in 
 inspiration feeling and spirit. Similarly, 
 we find the early intellectual dependence of 
 the Spanish American countries upon Spain, 
 even as later both the Spanish and the Portu 
 guese writers of America were to be in 
 fluenced greatly by French literature. 
 "Brazilian poetry," says Verissimo in the lit 
 tle essay already referred to, "was already in 
 
PRELIMINARY REMARKS 11 
 
 the seventeenth century superior to Portu 
 guese verse." He foresaw a time when it 
 would outdistance the mother country. But 
 Brazilian literature as a whole, he found, 
 lacked the perfect continuity, the cohesion, 
 the unity of great literatures, chiefly because 
 it began as Portuguese, later turned to 
 east (particularly France) and only then to 
 Brazil itself. In the early days it naturally 
 lacked the solidarity that comes from easy 
 communication between literary centers. 
 This same lack of communication was in a 
 sense still true at the time he wrote his essay. 
 The element of communicability did exist 
 during the Romantic period (1835-1860), 
 whereupon came influences from France, 
 England, Italy, and even Germany, and let 
 ters were rapidly denationalized. What was 
 thus needed and beneficial from the stand 
 point of national culture prejudiced the in 
 terests of national literature, says Verissimo. 
 He finds, too, that there is too little original 
 ity and culture among Brazilian writers, and 
 that their work lacks sincerity and form 
 (1899). Poetry was too often reduced to 
 the love of form while fiction was too closely 
 copied from the French, thus operating to 
 stifle the development of a national dramatic 
 literature. Excessive preoccupation with 
 
12 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 politics and finance ( where have we heard 
 that complaint elsewhere?) still further im 
 peded the rise of a truly native literature. 
 
 Perhaps Verissimo's outlook was too pessi 
 mistic; he was an earnest spirit, unafraid to 
 speak his mind and too much a lover of truth 
 to be misled by a love of his country into 
 making exaggerated claims for works by his 
 countrymen. We must not forget that he 
 was here looking upon Brazilian letters as a 
 whole; in other essays by him we discover 
 that same sober spirit, but he is alive to the 
 virtues of his fellow writers as well as to 
 their failings. 
 
 It is with the prose of the latest period in 
 Brazilian literature that we are here con 
 cerned. From the point of view of the novel 
 and tale Brazil shares with Argentina, 
 Columbia, Chile and Mexico the leadership 
 of the Latin-American* republics. If Colum 
 bia, in Jorge Isaacs' Maria, can show the 
 novel best known to the rest of the world, 
 and Chile, in such a figure as Alberto Blest- 
 Gana (author of Martin Rivas and other 
 novels) boasts a "South American Balzac," 
 Brazil may point to more than one work of 
 
 *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. 
 
PRELIMINARY REMARKS 13 
 
 fiction that is worthy of standing beside 
 Maria, Martin Rivas or Jose Marmol's exciting 
 tale of love and adventure, Amalia. The 
 growing importance of Brazil as a commer 
 cial nation, together with a corresponding in 
 crease of interest in the study of Portuguese 
 (a language easily acquired by all who know 
 Spanish) will have the desirable effect of 
 making known to the English reading public 
 a selection of works deserving of greater re 
 cognition. 
 
 Just to mention at random a few of the 
 books that should in the near future be 
 known to American readers, either in the 
 original or through the medium of transla 
 tions, I shall recall some of the names best 
 known to Brazilians in connection with the 
 modern tale and novel. If there be anything 
 lacking in the array of modern writers it is a 
 certain broad variety of subject and treat 
 ment to which other literatures have ac 
 customed us. 
 
 It is not to be wondered at that in sur 
 roundings such as the Amazon affords an 
 "Indian" school of literature should have 
 arisen. We have an analogous type of fic 
 tion in United States literature, old and new, 
 produced by similar causes. Brazilian "In- 
 dianism" reached its highest point perhaps 
 
14 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 in Jose Alencar's famous Guarany, which won 
 for its author national reputation and 
 achieved unprecedented success. Prom the 
 book was made a libretto that was set to 
 music by the Brazilian composer, Carlos Go 
 mez. The story is replete with an intensity 
 of life and charming descriptions that recall 
 the pages of Chateaubriand, and its prose 
 often verges upon poetry in its idealization 
 of the Indian race. Of the author's other 
 numerous works Iracema alone approaches 
 Guarany in popularity. The dominant note 
 of the author, afterward much repeated in 
 the literary history of his nation, is the essen 
 tial goodness and self-abnegation of the na 
 tional character. 
 
 Alfred d'Escragnolle Taunay (1843-1899) 
 is among the most important of Brazil's 
 novelists. Born at Rio de Janeiro of noble 
 family he went through a course in letters 
 and science, later engaging in the campaign 
 of Paraguay. He took part in the retreat of 
 La Laguna, an event which he has enshrined 
 in one of his best works, first published in 
 French under the title La Retraite de la La 
 guna. He served also as secretary to Count 
 d'Eu, who commanded the Brazilian army, 
 and later occupied various political offices, 
 rising to the office of senator in 1886. His 
 
PRELIMINARY REMARKS 15 
 
 list of works is too numerous to mention in a 
 fragmentary introduction of this nature; 
 chief among them stands Innocencia, a sister 
 tale, so to speak, to Isaacs's Maria. Accord 
 ing to Verissimo, Innocencia is one of the 
 country's few genuinely original novels. It 
 has been called, by Merou (1900), "the best 
 novel written in South America by a South 
 American," a compliment later paid by Gug- 
 lielmo Ferrero to Graga Aranha's Canaan. 
 Viscount Taunay's famous work has been 
 translated into French twice, once into Eng 
 lish, Italian, German, Danish, and even Ja 
 panese. 
 
 The scene is laid in the deserted Matto 
 Grosso, a favorite background of the 
 author's. Innocencia is all that her name 
 implies, and dwells secluded with her 
 father, who is a miner, her negress 
 slave Conga, and her Caliban-like dwarf 
 Tico, who loves Innocencia, the Miran 
 da of this district. Into Innocencia's 
 life comes the itinerant physician, Cirino de 
 Campos, who is called by her father to cure 
 her of the fever. Cirino is her Ferdinand; 
 they make love in secret, for she is meant by 
 paternal arrangement for a mere brute of a 
 mule driver, Menagao by name. Innocencia 
 vows herself to Cirino, when the mule-driver 
 
16 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 comes to enforce his prior claim; the father, 
 bound by his word of honor, sides with the 
 primitive lover. The tragedy seems foreor 
 dained, for Innocencia makes spirited resist 
 ance, while Mane^ao avenges himself by kil 
 ling the doctor. A comic figure of a Ger 
 man scientist adds humor and a certain poig 
 nant irony to the tale. Such a bare outline 
 conveys nothing of the mysterious charm of 
 the original, nor of its poetic atmosphere. 
 Comparing Innocencia with what has been 
 termed its sister work, Maria, I believe that 
 Maria is the better tale of the two, although 
 there is much to be said for both. The point 
 need not be pressed. The heroine of Maria 
 is more a woman, less a child than Inno 
 cencia, hence the fate of the Spanish girl 
 is tragic where that of the other maiden is 
 merely pitiful. Innocencia^ on the other hand, 
 is stouter in texture. In Maria there is no 
 love struggle; the struggle is with life and 
 circumstance; in Innocencia there is not only 
 the element of rivalry in love, but in addition 
 there is the rigid parent who sternly, and at 
 last murderously, opposes the natural desires 
 of a child whom he has promised to another. 
 Where Maria is idyllic, poetic, flowing 
 smoothing along the current of a realism 
 tempered by sentimentalism, Innocencia (by 
 
PRELIMINARY REMARKS 17 
 
 no means devoid of poetry) is romantic, 
 melodramatic, rushing along turbulently to 
 the outcome in a death as violent as Maria's 
 is peaceful. There is in each book a similar 
 importance of the background. In Innocencia 
 the "point of honor" is quite as strong and 
 vindictive as in any play of the Spanish Gol 
 den Age. Maria shares with Innocencia re-^ 
 lieving touches of humor and excellent pages 
 of character description. 
 
 Taunay's O Encilhamento is a violent anti 
 thesis to the work just considered. Here the 
 politician speaks. In passages of satire that 
 becomes so acrimonious at times as to indi 
 cate real personages, the wave of specula 
 tion that swept Argentina and Brazil is ana 
 lyzed and held up to scorn. The novel is 
 really a piece of historical much-raking and 
 was long an object of resentment in the re 
 public. 
 
 Everything from Taunay's pen reveals a 
 close communion with nature, an intimate 
 understanding of the psychology of the vast 
 region's inhabitants. His shorter tales, 
 which I hope later to present to the English- 
 reading public, reveal these powers at their 
 best. Now it is a soldier who goes to war, 
 only, like a military Enoch Arden, to return 
 and find his sweetheart in another's arms; 
 
18 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 now it is a clergyman, "the vicar of sorrows," 
 who, in the luxuriant environment of his 
 charge suffers the tortures of carnal tempta 
 tions, with the spirit at last triumphant over 
 the flesh. Whatever of artifice there is in 
 these tales is overcome, one of his most sym 
 pathetic critics tells us, by the poetic sin 
 cerity of the whole. Taunay, too, has been 
 likened to Pierre Loti for his exotic flavor. 
 In Yerece a Guana we have a miniature Inno- 
 cencia. Yerce and Alberto Monteiro fall in 
 love and marry. The latter has been cured, 
 at the home of Yerece, of swamp fever. The 
 inevitable, however, occurs, and Montero 
 hears the call of civilization. The marriage, 
 according to the custom of the tribe into 
 which Montero has wed, is dissolved by the 
 man alone. He returns to his old life and 
 she dies of grief. 
 
 A work that may stand beside Innocencia 
 and Verissimo's Scenes from Amazon Life as a 
 successful national product is Inglez de 
 Sousa's O Missionario. Antonio de Moraes, 
 in this story, is not so strong in will as Tau- 
 nay's vicar of sorrows. Antonio is a mis 
 sionary "with the vocation of a martyr and 
 the soul of an apostle," on duty in the tropics. 
 The voluptuous magnetism of the Amazon 
 seizes his body. Slowly, agonizingly, but 
 
PRELIMINARY REMARKS 19 
 
 surely he succumbs to the enchantment, 
 overpowered by the life around him. 
 
 Since Machado de Assis( who should pre 
 cede Azevedo) and Coelho Netto (who 
 should follow him, if strict chronological or- 
 dere were being observed) are both referred 
 to in section three, which deals particularly 
 with the authors represented in this sample 
 assortment of short tales, they are here 
 omitted. 
 
 With the appearance of Mulato by Alui- 
 zio Azevedo (1857-1912), the literature of 
 Brazil, prepared for such a reorientation by 
 the direct influence of the great Portuguese, 
 E^a de Queiroz, and Emile Zola, was definite 
 ly steered toward naturalism. "In Aluizio 
 Azevedo," says Benedicto Costa, "one finds 
 neither the poetry of Jos de Alencar, nor the 
 delicacy, I should even say, archness of 
 Macedo, nor the sentimental preciosity of 
 Taunay, nor the subtle irony of Machado de 
 Assis. His phrase is brittle, lacking lyricism, 
 tenderness, dreaminess, but it is dynamic, 
 energetic, expressive, and, at times, sensual 
 to the point of sweet delirium." 
 
 O Mulato, though it was the work of a 
 youth in his early twenties, has been ac 
 knowledged as a solid, well-constructed ex 
 ample of Brazilian realism. There is a note 
 
20 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 of humor, as well as a lesson in criticism, in 
 the author's anecdote (told in his foreword to 
 the fourth edition) about the provincial edi 
 tor who advised the youthful author to give 
 up writing and hire himself out on a farm. 
 This was all the notice he received from his 
 native province, Maranhao. Yet Azevedo 
 grew to be one of the few Brazilian authors 
 who supported himself by his pen. 
 
 When Brazilian letters are better known 
 in this nation, among Azevedo's work we 
 should be quick to appreciate such a pithy 
 book as the Livro de uma Sogra, the Book of 
 a Mother-in-Law. And when the literature 
 of these United States is at last (if ever, in 
 deed!) released from the childish, hypocriti 
 cal, Puritanic inhibitions forced upon it by 
 quasi official societies, we may even relish, 
 from among Azevedo's long shelf of novels, 
 such a sensuous product as Cortigo. 
 
 I have singled out, rather arbitrarily it 
 must be admitted, a few of the characteris 
 tic works that preceded the appearance of 
 Graga Aranha's Canaan, the novel that was 
 lifted into prominence by Guglielmo Perrero's 
 fulsome praise of it as the "great American 
 novel."* For South America, no less than 
 
 *Issued, in English (1920) by the publishers of this 
 book. 
 
PRELIMINARY REMARKS 21 
 
 North, is hunting that literary will o' the 
 wisp. Both Maria and Innocencia have been 
 mentioned for that honor. 
 
 There is a distinct basis for comparison 
 beween Innocencia and the more famous 
 Spanish American tale from Colombia; be 
 tween these and Canaan, however, there is 
 little similarity, if one overlook the poetic at 
 mosphere that glamours all three. Aranha's 
 masterpiece is of far broader conception than 
 the other two; it adds to their lyricism an 
 epic sweep inherent in the subject and very 
 soon felt in the treatment. It is, in fact, a 
 difficult novel to classify, impregnated as it 
 is with a noble idealism, yet just as undoubt 
 edly streaked with a powerful realism. This 
 should, however, connote no inept mingling 
 of genres ; the style seems to be called for by 
 the very nature of the vast theme that 
 moment at which the native and the immi 
 grant strain begin to merge in the land of 
 the future the promised land that the pro 
 tagonists are destined never to enter, even 
 as Moses himself, upon Mount Nebo in the 
 land 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 and cus- 
 
22 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 toms, to discussions upon present realities 
 and ultimate purposes, is perhaps more fre 
 quent among Spanish and Portuguese Ameri 
 cans than among our own readers who are 
 apt to be overinsistent in their demands for 
 swift, visible action. Yet, in the hands of a 
 master, it possesses no less interest than the 
 more obvious type of fiction, for ideas pos 
 sess more life than the persons who are 
 moved by them. 
 
 The idea that carries Milkau from the Old 
 World to the New is an ideal of human bro 
 therhood, high purpose and dissatisfaction 
 with the old, degenerate world. In the State 
 of Espirito Santo, where the German colon 
 ists are dominant, he plans a simple life that 
 shall drink inspiration in the youth of a new, 
 virgin continent. He falls in with another 
 German, Lentz, whose outlook upon life is at 
 first the very opposite to Milkau's blend of 
 Christianity and a certain liberal socialism. 
 The strange milieu breeds in both an intellec 
 tual langour that vents itself in long discus 
 sions, in breeding contemplation, mirages of 
 the spirit. Milkau is gradually struck with 
 something wrong in the settlement. Little 
 by little it begins to dawn upon him that 
 something of the Old-World hypocrisy, fraud 
 and insincerity, is contaminating this sup- 
 
PRELIMINARY REMARKS 23 
 
 posedly virgin territory. Here he discovers 
 no paradise a la Rousseau no natural man 
 untainted by the ills of civilization. Graft 
 is as rampant as in any district of the world 
 across the sea; cruelty is as rife. His pity is 
 aroused by the plight of Mary, a destitute 
 servant who is betrayed by the son of her 
 employers. Not only does the scamp desert 
 her when she most needs his protection and 
 acknowledgment, but he is silent when his 
 equally vicious parents drive her forth to a 
 life of intense hardship. She is spurned at 
 every door and reduced to beggary. Her 
 child is born under the most distressing cir 
 cumstances, and under conditions that 
 strike the note of horror the infant is slain 
 before her very eyes while she gazes helpless 
 ly on. 
 
 Mary is accused of infanticide, and since 
 she lacks witnesses, she is placed in a very 
 difficult position. Moreover, the father of her 
 child bends every effort to loosen the 
 harshest measures of the community against 
 her, whereupon Milkau, whose heart is open 
 to the sufferings of the universe, has an 
 other opportunity to behold man's in 
 humanity to woman. His pity turns to what 
 pity is akin to; he effects her release from 
 jail, and together they go forth upon a jour- 
 
24 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 ney that ends in the delirium of death. The 
 promised land had proved a mirage at least 
 for the present. And it is upon this inde 
 cisive 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, for Aranha's work is of intense in 
 terest to the reader who looks for psychologi 
 cal power, and Perrero himself is the ex 
 ponent of history as psychology rather than 
 as economic materialism. "The critics," he 
 says, "will judge the literary merits of this 
 novel. As a literary amateur I will point out 
 among its qualities the beauty of its style 
 and its descriptions, the purity of the psycho 
 logical analysis, the depth of the thoughts 
 and the reflections of which the novel is full, 
 and among its faults a certain disproportion 
 between the different parts of the book and 
 an ending which is too vague, indefinite and 
 unexpected. But its literary qualities seem 
 to me to be of secondary importance to the 
 profound and incontrovertible idea that 
 forms the kernel of the book. Here in 
 Europe we are accustomed to say that 
 modern civilization develops itself in America 
 more freely than in Europe, for in the former 
 country it has not to surmount the obstacle 
 
PRELIMINARY REMARKS 25 
 
 of an older society, firmly established, as in 
 the case of the latter. Because of this, we 
 call America 'the country of the young,' and 
 we consider the New World as the great 
 force which decomposes the old European 
 social organization." That idea is, as Fer- 
 rero points out, an illusion due to distance. 
 He points out, too, that here is everywhere 
 "an old America struggling against a new 
 one and, this is very curious, the new Ameri 
 ca, which upsets traditions, is formed above 
 all by the European immigrants who seek a 
 place for themselves in the country of their 
 adoption, whereas the real Americans repre 
 sent the conservative tendencies. Europe 
 exerts on American society through its 
 emigrants the same dissolving action which 
 America exerts through its novelties and its 
 example on the old civilization of Europe." 
 The point is very well taken, and contains 
 the germ of a great novel of the United 
 States. And just as Canaan stands by itself 
 in Brazilian literature, so might such a novel 
 achieve preeminence in our own. 
 
 Ferrero is quite right in indicating the 
 great non-literary importance of the novel, 
 though not all readers will agree with him as 
 to the excessive vagueness of the end. Hard 
 ly any other type of ending would have befit- 
 
26 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 ted a novel that treats of transition, of a 
 landscape that dazzles and enthralls, of pos 
 sibilities that founder, not through the ma- 
 lignance of fate, but through the stupidity of 
 man. There is an epic swirl to the finale that 
 reminds one of the disappearance of an 
 ancient diety in a pillar of dust. For an un 
 common man like Milkau an uncommon end 
 was called for. Numerous questions are 
 touched upon in the course of the leisurely 
 narrative, everywhere opening up new vis 
 tas of thought; for Aranha is philosophically, 
 critically inclined; his training is cosmopoli 
 tan, as his life has been ; he knows the great 
 Germans, Scandinavians, Belgians and Rus 
 sians; his native exuberance has been tem 
 pered by a serenity that is the product of 
 European influence. He is some fifty-two 
 years of age, has served his nation at Chris- 
 tiania as minister, at the Hague, and as 
 leader in the Allied cause. He is, therefore, 
 an acknowledged and proven spokesman. 
 The author of Canaan has done other things, 
 among which this book, which has long been 
 known in French and Spanish, stands out as 
 a document that marks an epoch in Brazilian 
 history as well as a stage in Brazilian litera 
 ture. Whether it is "the" great American, 
 novel is of interest only to literary politicians 
 
PRELIMINARY REMARKS 27 
 
 and pigeon-holers; it is "a" great novel, 
 whether of America or Europe, and that suf 
 fices for the lover of belles lettres. 
 
 III. 
 
 In considering the work of such writers 
 as these and the authors represented in this 
 little pioneer volume one should bear con 
 tinually in mind the many handicaps under 
 which authorship labors in Portuguese and 
 Spanish America: a small reading public, 
 lack of publishers, widespread prevalence of 
 illiteracy, instability of politics. Under the 
 circumstances it is not so much to be won 
 dered at that the best work is of such a high 
 average as that it was done at all. For in 
 nations where education is so limited and il 
 literacy so prevalent the manifold functions 
 which in more highly developed nations are 
 performed by many are perforce done by a 
 few. Hence the spectacle in the new Span 
 ish and Portuguese world, as in the old, of 
 men and women who are at once journalists, 
 novelists, dramatists, politicians, soldiers, 
 poets and what not else. Such a versatility, 
 often joined to a literary prolixity, no doubt 
 serves to lower the artistic worth of works 
 produced under such conditions. 
 
 In connection with the special character 
 
28 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 of the tales included in the present sample 
 of modem Brazilian short stories, particu 
 larly those by Machado de Assis and Medei- 
 ros e Albuquerque it is interesting to keep 
 in mind the popularity of Poe and Hawthorne 
 in South America. The introspection 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 prob 
 lems, does not often, in these writers, reacln 
 the point or morbidity which we have be 
 come accustomed to expect in the novels and 
 tales of the Russians. Stories like The At 
 tendant's Confession are written with a refine 
 ment of thought as well as of language. 
 They are not, as so much of Brazilian litera 
 ture must perforce seem to the stranger's 
 mind, exotic. They belong to the letters of 
 the world by virtue of the human appeal of 
 the subject and the mastery of their treat 
 ment. 
 
 Chief among the writers here represented 
 stands Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis. 
 (1839-1908) . Born in Rio de Janeiro of poor 
 parents he was early beset with difficulties. 
 He soon found his way into surroundings 
 where his literary tastes were awakened and 
 where he came into contact with some of the 
 
PRELIMINARY REMARKS 29 
 
 leading spirits of the day. The noted 
 literary historians of his country, Sylvio 
 Romero and Joao Ribeiro (in their Compendia 
 de Historia da Litteratura Brazileira) find the 
 writing of his first period of little value. The 
 next decade, from his thirtieth to his 
 fourtieth year, is called transitional. With 
 the year 1879, however, Machado de Assis 
 began a long phase of maturity that was to 
 last for thirty years. It was during this 
 fruitful period that Memorias Postumas de Braz 
 Cubas, Quincas Borbas, Historias Sem Data, 
 Dom Casmurro, V arias Historias and other 
 notable works were produced. The three 
 tales by Machado de Assis in this volume are 
 translated from his V arias Historias. That 
 same bitter-sweet philosophy and gracious, 
 if penetrating, irony which inform these tales 
 are characteristic of his larger romances. 
 Four volumes of poetry sustain his reputa 
 tion as poet. He is found, by Romero and 
 Ribeiro, to be very correct and somewhat 
 cold in his verse. He took little delight in 
 nature and lacked the passionate, robust 
 temperament that projects itself upon pages 
 of ardent beauty. In the best of his prose 
 works, however, he penetrates as deep as 
 any of his countrymen into the abyss of the 
 human soul, 
 
30 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 The judgment of Verissimo upon Machado 
 de Assis differs somewhat from that of his 
 distinguished compatriots. Both because of 
 the importance of Machado de Assis to Bra 
 zilian literature, and as an insight into Veris- 
 simo's delightful critical style, I translate 
 somewhat at length from that writer. 
 
 "With Varias Historias" he says in his 
 studies of Brazilian letters, "Sr. Machado de 
 Assis published his fifteenth volume and his 
 fifth collection of tales ... To say that in our 
 literature Machado de Assis is a figure apart, 
 that he stands with good reason first among 
 our writers of fiction, that he possesses a 
 rare faculty of assimilation and evolution 
 which makes him a writer of the second 
 Romantic generation, always a contem 
 porary, a modern, without on this account 
 having sacrificed anything to the latest 
 literary fashion or copied some brand-new 
 aesthetic, above all conserving his own dis 
 tinct, singular personality ... is but to repeat 
 what has been said many times already. All 
 these judgments are confirmed by his latest 
 book, wherein may be noted the same im 
 peccable correctness of language, the same 
 firm grasp upon form, the same abundancy, 
 force and originality of thought that make 
 of him the only thinker among our writers of 
 
PRELIMINARY REMARKS 31 
 
 fiction, the same sad, bitter irony . . . 
 
 "After this there was published another 
 book by Sr. Machado de Assis, Yayd Garcia. 
 Although this is really a new edition, we may 
 well speak of it here since the first, published 
 long before, is no longer remembered by the 
 public. Moreover, this book has the delight 
 ful and honest charm of being in the writer's 
 first manner. 
 
 "But let us understand at once, this refer 
 ence to Machado de Assis's first manner. In 
 this author more than once is justified the 
 critical concept of the unity of works dis 
 played by the great writers. All of Machado 
 de Assis is practically present in his early 
 works ; in fact, he did not change, he scarcely 
 developed. He is the most individual, the 
 most personal, the most 'himself of our 
 writers; all the germs of this individuality 
 that was to attain in Bras Cubas, in Quincas 
 B orb as, in the Papeis Avulsos and in V arias 
 Historias its maximum of virtuosity, may be 
 discovered in his first poems and in his ear 
 liest tales. His second manner, then, of 
 which these books are the best example, is 
 only the logical, natural, spontaneous de 
 velopment of his first, or rather, it is the first 
 manner with less of the romantic and more 
 of the critical tendencies . . . The distinguish- 
 
32 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 ing trait of Machado de 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 a description. Those who 
 come after him proceed consciously and un 
 consciously from him, some of them being 
 mere worthless imitators. In this genre, if I 
 am not misemploying that term, he remained 
 without a peer. Add that this philosopher 
 is a pessimist by temperament and by con 
 viction, and you will have as complete a 
 characterization as it is possible to design of 
 so strong and complex a figure as his in two 
 strokes of the pen. 
 
 "Yayd Garcia, like Resurreiqao and Helena, 
 is a romantic account, perhaps the most 
 romantic written by the author. Not only 
 the most romantic, but perhaps the most 
 emotional. In the books that followed it is 
 easy to see how the emotion is, one might 
 say, systematically repressed by the sad 
 irony of a disillusioned man's realism." 
 Verissimo goes on to imply that such a work 
 as this merits comparison with the humane 
 books of Tolstoi. But this only on the sur- 
 fact. "For at bottom, it contains the 
 author's misanthropy. A social, amiable 
 misanthropy, curious about everything, in 
 terested in everything, what is, in the final 
 
PRELIMINARY REMARKS 33 
 
 ar rlysis, a way of loving mankind without 
 esteeming it ... 
 
 "The excellency with which the author of 
 Yaya Garcia writes our language is proverbial 
 . . . The highest distinction of the genius of 
 Machado de Assis in Brazilian literature is 
 that he is the only truly universal writer we 
 possess, without ceasing on that account to 
 be really Brazilian." 
 
 When the Brazilian Academy of letters 
 was founded in 1897, Machado de Assis was 
 unanimously elected president and held the 
 position until his death. Oliveira Lima, who 
 lectured at Harvard during the college sea 
 son of 1915-1916, and who is himself one of 
 the great intellectual forces of contemporary 
 Brazil, has written of Machado de Assis: 
 "By his extraordinary talent as writer, by 
 his profound literary dignity, by the unity of 
 a life that was entirely devoted to the cult of 
 intellectual beauty, and by the prestige exert 
 ed about him by his work and by his per 
 sonality, Machado de Assis succeeded, de 
 spite a nature that was averse to acclaim and 
 little inclined to public appearance, in being 
 considered and respected as the first among 
 his country's men-of-letters : the head, if that 
 word can denote the idea, of a youthful 
 literature which already possesses its tradi- 
 
34 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 tions and cherishes above all its glories . . . 
 His life was one of the most regulated and 
 peaceful after he had given up active journal 
 ism, for like 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 a professor of 
 lierature at Rio de Janeiro. His career has 
 covered the fields of journalism, politics, edu 
 cation and fiction. Although his work is of 
 uneven worth, no doubt because of his un 
 ceasing productivity, he is reckoned by so 
 exacting a critic as Verissimo as one of Bra 
 zil's most important writers, one of the few, 
 in fact, that will 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 every 
 other youth in Brazil was imitating his every 
 mannerism. He is particularly felicitous in 
 his descriptions of tropical nature, which 
 teem with glowing life and vivid picturesque- 
 ness. 
 
 Coelho Netto is considered one of the chief 
 writers of the modern epoch. "He is really 
 an idealist," writes Verissimo, "but an ideal 
 ist who has drunk deeply of the strong, dan- 
 
PRELIMINARY REMARKS 35 
 
 gerous milk of French naturalism." He sees 
 nature through his soul rather than his eyes, 
 and has been much influenced by the mys 
 tics of Russia, Germany and Scandinavia. 
 His style is derived chiefly from the Portu 
 guese group of which E^a de Queiroz is the 
 outstanding figure, and his language has 
 been much affected by this attachment to the 
 mother country. His chief stylistic quality 
 is an epic note, tempered by a sentimental 
 lyricism. 
 
 In his book Le Roman au Bresil (The Novel 
 in Brazil, which I believe the author himself 
 translated from the original Portuguese into 
 French) Benedicto Costa, after considering 
 Aluizio Azevedo as the exponent of Brazilian 
 naturalism and the epicist of the race's 
 sexual instincts, turns to Coelho Netto's 
 neo-romanticism, as the eternal praise 
 of nature, the incessant, exaggerated 
 exaltation of the landscape ..." In Netto 
 he perceives the most Brazilian, the least 
 European of the republic's authors. "One 
 may say of him what Taine said of Balzac: 
 'A sort of literary elephant, capable of bear 
 ing prodigious burdens, but heavy-footed.' 
 And in fact ... he reveals a great resem 
 blance to Balzac, a relative Balzac, for the 
 
36 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 exclusive use of a people, but a Balzac 
 none the less." 
 
 Despite his lack of ideas, his mixture of 
 archaisms, nelogisms, his exuberance, his 
 slow development of plots, his lack of pro 
 portion (noticeable, naturally, in his longer 
 works rather than in his short fiction) he 
 stands pre-eminent as a patron of the na 
 tion's intellectual youth and as the romancer 
 of its opulent imagination. 
 
 Medeiros e Albuquerque (1867- ) is 
 considered by some critics to be the leading 
 exponent in the country of "the manner of 
 de Maupassant, enveloped by an indefinable 
 atmosphere that seems to bring back Edgar 
 Allan Poe." He has been director-general 
 of public instruction in Rio de Janeiro, pro 
 fessor at the Normal School and the National 
 School of Fine Arts, and also a deputy from 
 Pernambuco. With the surprising versatility 
 of so many South Americans he has achieved 
 a reputation as poet, novelist, dramatist, pub 
 licist, journalist and philosopher. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The part that women have played in the 
 progress of the South American republics is 
 as interesting as it is little known. The name 
 of the world's largest river the Amazon, or 
 
PRELIMINARY REMARKS 37 
 
 more exactly speaking, the Amazons stands 
 as a lasting tribute to the bravery of the early 
 women whom the explorer Orellana encount- 
 ed during his conquest of the mighty flood.* 
 For he named the river in honor of the tribes' 
 fighting heroines. Centuries later, when one 
 by one the provinces of South America rose 
 to liberate themselves from the Spanish yoke, 
 the women again played a noble part in the 
 various revolutions. The statue in Colom 
 bia to Policarpa Salavarieta is but a symbol 
 of South American gratitude to a host of 
 women who fought side by side with their 
 husbands during the trying days of the early 
 nineteenth century. One of them, Manuela 
 la Tucumana, was even made an officer in 
 the Argentine army. 
 
 If women, however, have enshrined them 
 selves in the patriotic annals of the Southern 
 republics, they have shown that they are no 
 less the companions of man in the more 
 or less agreeable arts of peace. When one 
 considers the great percentage of illiteracy 
 that still prevails in Southern America, and 
 
 *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 
 trees and sweeps away whole tracts of land. 
 
38 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 the inferior intellectual position which for 
 years has been the lot of woman particularly 
 in the Spanish and Portuguese nations, it is 
 surprising that woman's prominence in the 
 literary world should be what it is. 
 
 The name of the original seventeenth cen 
 tury spirit known as Sor Ines de la Cruz 
 (Mexico) is part of Spanish literature. Only 
 recently has she been indicated as her na 
 tion's first folklorist and feminist! Her 
 poems have found their way into the antho 
 logies of universal poesy. The most dis 
 tinguished Spanish poetess of the nineteenth 
 century, Gertrudis Gomez de Avellaneda, 
 was a Cuban by birth, going later to Spain, 
 where she was readily received as one of the 
 nation's leading literary lights. Her poetry 
 is remarkable for its virile passion ; her novel 
 "Sab" has been called the Spanish "Uncle 
 Tom's Cabin" for its stirring protest against 
 slavery and its idealization of the oppressed 
 race. She was a woman of striking beauty, 
 yet so vigorous in her work and the prosecu 
 tion of it that one facetious critic was led to 
 exclaim, "This woman is a good deal of a 
 man!" 
 
 But South America has its native candi 
 date for the title of Spanish "Uncle Tom's 
 Cabin," and this, too, is the work of a 
 
PRELIMINARY REMARKS 39 
 
 woman. Clorinda Matte's "Aves Sin Nido" 
 (Birds Without a Nest) is by one of Peru's 
 most talented women, and exposes the dis 
 graceful exploitation of the Indians by con 
 scienceless citizens and priests who had sunk 
 beneath their holy calling. It seems, indeed, 
 that fiction as a whole in Peru has been left 
 to the pens of the women. Such names as 
 Joana Manuele Girriti de Belzu, Clorinda 
 Matto and Mercedes Cabello de Carbonero 
 stand for what is best in the South American 
 novel. The epoch in which these women 
 wrote (late nineteenth century) and the 
 natural feminine tendency to put the house 
 in order (whether it be the domestic or the 
 national variety) led to such stories as Car- 
 bonero's "Las Consequencias," "El Con- 
 spirador" and "Blanca Sol." The first of 
 these is an indictment of the Peruvian vice 
 of gambling; the second throws an interest 
 ing light upon the origin of much of the in 
 ternal strife of South America, and portrays 
 a revolution brought on by the personal dis 
 appointment of a politician. "Blanca Sol" 
 has been called a Peruvian "Madame Bo- 
 vary." 
 
 Although Brazil has not yet produced any 
 Amazons of poetry or fiction to stand beside 
 such names as Sor Ines de la Cruz or Ger- 
 
40 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 trudis Gomez de Avallaneda, it has con 
 tributed some significant names to the 
 women writers of Latin America. Not least 
 among these is Carmen Dolores (Emilia Mon- 
 corvo Bandeira de Mello) who was born in 
 1852 at Rio de Janeiro and died in 1910, after 
 achieving a wide reputation in the field of the 
 short story, novel and fueilleton. In addi 
 tion to these activities she made herself fa 
 vorably known in the press of Rio, Sao Paulo 
 and Pernambuco. Her career started with 
 the novel Confession. Other works are The 
 Struggle, A Country Drama, and Brazilian 
 Legends. 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 infalli 
 bility of choice. This little book is, so to 
 speak, merely a modest sample-case. Some 
 of the tales first appeared, in English, in the 
 Boston Evening Transcript and the Stratford 
 Journal (Boston), to which organs I am in 
 debted for permission to reprint them. 
 
 ISAAC GOLDBERG. 
 
 Roxbury, Mass. 
 
THE 
 ATTENDANT'S CONFESSION 
 
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 hap 
 pened to me in 1860 is worth while 
 writing down? Very well. I'll tell you 
 the story, but on the condition that you do 
 not divulge it before my death. You'll not 
 have to wait long a week at most; I am a 
 marked man. 
 
 I could have told you the story of my 
 whole life, which holds many other interest 
 ing details: but for that there would be 
 needed time, courage and paper. There is 
 plenty of paper, indeed, but my courage is at 
 low ebb, and as to the time that is yet left 
 me, it may be compared to the life of a can 
 dle-flame. Soon tomorrow's sun will rise 
 a demon sun as impenetrable as life itself. 
 So goodbye, my dear sir; read this and bear 
 me no ill will; pardon me those things that 
 will appear evil to v you and do not complain 
 too much if there is exhaled a disagreeable 
 odor which is not exactly that of the rose. 
 43 
 
44 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 You asked me for a human document. Here 
 it is. Ask me for neither the empire of the 
 Great Mogul nor a photograph of the Mac 
 cabees; but request, if you will, my dead 
 man's shoes, and I'll will them to you and no 
 other. 
 
 You already know that this took place in 
 1860. The year before, about the month of 
 August, at the age of forty-two, I had be 
 come a theologian that is, I copied the theo 
 logical studies of a priest at Nictheroy, an 
 old college-chum, who thus tactfully gave me 
 my board and lodging. In that same month 
 of August, 1859, he received a letter from the 
 vicar of a small town in the interior, asking 
 if he knew of an intelligent, discreet and pa 
 tient person who would be willing, in return 
 for generous wages, to serve as attendant to 
 the invalid Colonel Felisbert. The priest pro 
 posed that I take the place, and I accepted it 
 eagerly, for I was tired of copying Latin 
 quotations and ecclesiastic formulas. First I 
 went to Rio de Janeiro to take leave of a 
 brother who lived at the capital, and from 
 there I departed for the little village of the 
 interior. 
 
 When I arrived there I heard bad news 
 concerning the colonel. He was pictured to 
 me as a disagreeable, harsh, exacting fellow; 
 
THE ATTENDANT'S CONFESSION 45 
 
 nobody could endure him, not even his own 
 friends. He had used more attendants than 
 medicines. In fact he had broken the faces 
 of two of them. But to all this I replied that 
 I had no fear of persons in good health, still 
 less of invalids. So, after first visiting the 
 vicar, who confirmed all that I had heard and 
 recommended to me charity and forbearance, 
 I turned toward the colonel's residence. 
 
 I found him on the veranda of his house, 
 stretched out on a chair and suffering great 
 ly. He received me fairly well. At first he 
 examined me silently, piercing me with his 
 two feline eyes; then a kind of malicious 
 smile spread over his features, which were 
 rather hard. Finally he declared to me that 
 all the attendants he had ever engaged in 
 his service hadn't been worth a button, that 
 they slept too much, were impudent and 
 spent their time courting the servants; two 
 of them were even thieves. 
 
 "And you, are you a thief?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 Then he asked me my name. Scarcely 
 had I uttered it when he made a gesture of 
 astonishment. 
 
 "Your name is Colombo?" 
 
 "No, sir. My name is Procopio Jose" 
 Gomes Vallongo." 
 
46 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 Vallongo? He came to the conclusion 
 that this was no Christian name and pro 
 posed thenceforth to call me simply Procopio. 
 I replied that it should be just as he pleased. 
 
 If I recall this incident, it is not only be 
 cause it seems to me to give a good picture 
 of the colonel, but also to show you that my 
 reply made a very good impression upon him. 
 The next day he told the vicar so, adding 
 that he had never had a more sympathetic 
 attendant. The fact is, we lived a regular 
 honeymoon that lasted one week. 
 
 Prom the dawn of the eighth day I knew 
 the life of my predecessors a dog's life. I 
 no longer slept. I no longer thought of any 
 thing, I was showered with insults and 
 laughed at them from time to time with an 
 air of resignation and submission, for I had 
 discovered that this was a way of pleasing 
 him. His impertinences proceeded as much 
 from his malady as from his temperament. 
 His illness was of the most complicated: he 
 suffered from aneurism, rheumatism and 
 three or four minor affections. He was 
 nearly sixty, and since he had been five years 
 old had been accustomed to having every 
 body at his beck and call. That he was 
 surly one could well forgive ; but he was also 
 very malicious. He took pleasure in the 
 
THE ATTENDANT'S CONFESSION 47 
 
 grief and the humiliation of others. At the 
 end of three months I was tired of putting up 
 with him and had resolved to leave; only the 
 opportunity was lacking. 
 
 But that came soon enough. One day, 
 when I was a bit late in giving him a mas 
 sage, 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 with him and I went to pack my 
 trunk. He came later to my room; he begged 
 me to remain, assured me that there wasn't 
 anything to be angry at, that I must excuse 
 the ill-humoredness of old age. . . He insisted 
 so much that I agreed to stay. 
 
 "I am nearing the end, Procopio," he said 
 to me that evening. "I can't live much 
 longer. I am upon the verge of the grave. 
 You will go to my burial, Procopio. Under 
 no circumstances will I excuse you. You 
 shall go, 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 believe in souls of the other world, 
 Procopio?" 
 
 "Nonsense!" 
 
 "And why don't you, you blockhead?" he 
 replied passionately, with distended eyes. 
 
 That is how he was in his peaceful inter- 
 
48 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 vals; what he was during his attacks of 
 anger, you may well imagine! 
 
 He hit me no more with his cane, but his 
 insults were the same, if not worse. With 
 time I became hardened, I no longer heeded 
 anything; I was an ignoramus, a camel, a 
 bumpkin, an idiot, a loggerhead I was 
 everything! It must further be understood 
 that I alone was favored with these pretty 
 names. He had no relatives; there had been 
 a nephew, but he had died of consumption. 
 As to friends, those who came now and then 
 to flatter him and indulge his whims made 
 him but a short visit, five or ten minutes at 
 the most. I alone was always present to 
 receive his dictionary of insults. More than 
 once I resolved to leave him ; but as the vicar 
 would exhort me not to abandon the colonel 
 I always yielded in the end. 
 
 Not only were our relations becoming very 
 much strained, but I was in a hurry to get 
 back to Rio de Janeiro. At forty-two years 
 of age one does not easily accustom him 
 self to perpetual seclusion with a brutal, 
 snarling old invalid, in the depths of a remote 
 village. Just to give you an idea of my iso 
 lation, let it suffice to inform you that I didn't 
 even read the newspapers; outside of some 
 more or less important piece of news that 
 
THE ATTENDANT'S CONFESSION 49 
 
 was brought to the colonel, I knew nothing 
 of what was doing in the world. I therefore 
 yearned to get back to Rio at the first oppor 
 tunity, even at the cost of breaking with the 
 vicar. And I may as well add since I am 
 here making a general confession that 
 having spent nothing of my wages, I was 
 itching to dissipate them at the capital. 
 
 Very probably my chance was approach 
 ing. The colonel was rapidly getting worse. 
 He made his will, the notary receiving almost 
 as many insults as did I. The invalid's treat 
 ment became more strict; short intervals of 
 peace and rest became rarer than ever for 
 me. Already I had lost the meagre measure 
 of pity that made me forget the old invalid's 
 excesses ; within me there seethed a cauldron 
 of aversion and hatred. At the beginning of 
 the month of August I decided definitely to 
 leave. The vicar and the doctor, finally ac 
 cepting my explanations, asked me but a few 
 days' more service. I gave them a month. 
 At the end of that time I would depart, what 
 ever might be the condition of the invalid. 
 The vicar promised to find a substitute for 
 me. 
 
 You'll see now what happened. On the 
 evening of the 24th of August the colonel 
 had a violent attack of anger; he struck me, 
 
50 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 he called me the vilest names, he threatened 
 to shoot me; finally he threw in my face a 
 plate of porridge that was too cold for him. 
 The plate struck the wall and broke into a 
 thousand fragments. 
 
 "You'll pay me for it, you thief!" he bel 
 lowed. 
 
 For a long time he grumbled. Towards 
 eleven o'clock he gradually fell asleep. While 
 he slept I took a book out of my pocket, a 
 translation of an old d'Arlincourt romance 
 which I had found lying about, and began to 
 read it in his room, at a small distance from 
 his bed. I was to wake him at midnight to 
 give him his medicine; but, whether it was 
 due to fatigue or to the influence of the book, 
 I, too, before reaching the second page, fell 
 asleep. The cries of the colonel awoke me 
 with a start; in an instant I was up. He, 
 apparently in a delirium, continued to utter 
 the same cries; finally he seized his water- 
 bottle and threw it at my face. I could not 
 get out of the way in time ; the bottle hit me 
 in the left cheek, and the pain was so acute 
 that I almost lost consciousness. With a 
 leap I rushed upon the invalid; I tightened 
 my hands around his neck; he struggled 
 several moments; I strangled him. 
 
 When I beheld that he no longer breathed, 
 
THE ATTENDANT'S CONFESSION 51 
 
 I stepped back in terror. I cried out; but no 
 body heard me. Then, approaching the bed 
 once more, I shook him so as to bring him 
 back to life. It was too late; the aneurism 
 had burst, and the colonel was dead. I went 
 into the adjoining room, and for two hours I 
 did not dare to return. It is impossible for 
 me to express all that I felt during that time. 
 It was intense stupefaction, a kind of vague 
 and vacant delirium. It seemed to me that 
 I saw faces grinning on the walls; I heard 
 muffled voices. The cries of the victim, the 
 cries uttered before the struggle and during 
 its wild moments continued to reverberate 
 within me, and the air, in whatever direction 
 I turned, seemed to shake with convulsions. 
 Do not imagine that I am inventing pictures 
 or aiming at verbal style. I swear to you 
 that I heard distinctly voices that were crying 
 at me: "Murderer; Murderer!" 
 
 All was quiet in the house. The tick-tick 
 of the clock, very even, slow, dryly metrical, 
 increased the silence and solitude. I put my 
 ear to the door of the room, in hope of hear 
 ing a groan, a word, an insult, anything that 
 would be a sign of life, that might bring back 
 peace to my conscience; I was ready to let 
 myself be struck ten, twenty, a hundred 
 times, by the colonel's hand. But, nothing 
 
52 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 all was silent. I began to pace the room aim 
 lessly; I sat down, I brought my hands des 
 pairingly to my head ; I repented ever having 
 come to the place. 
 
 "Cursed be the hour in which I ever ac 
 cepted such a position," I cried. And I flamed 
 with resentment against the priest of Nich- 
 teroy, against the doctor, the vicar against 
 all those who had procured the place for me 
 and forced me to remain there so long. They, 
 too, I convinced myself, were accomplices in 
 my crime. 
 
 As the silence finally terrified me, I opened 
 a window, in the hope of hearing at least the 
 murmuring of the wind. But no wind was 
 blowing. The night was peaceful. The 
 stars were sparkling with the indifference of 
 those who remove their hats before a passing 
 funeral procession and continue to speak of 
 other things. I remained at the window for 
 some time, my elbows on the sill, my gaze 
 seeking to penetrate the night, forcing myself 
 to make a mental summary of my life so that 
 I might escape the present agony. I believe 
 it was only then that I thought clearly about 
 the penalty of my crime. I saw myself al 
 ready being accused and threatened with dire 
 punishment. Prom this moment fear com- 
 
THE ATTENDANT'S CONFESSION 53 
 
 plicated my feeling of remorse. I felt my 
 hair stand on end. A few minutes later I 
 saw three or four human shapes spying at 
 me from the terrace, where they seemed to 
 be waiting in ambush; I withdrew; the shapes 
 vanished into the air; it had been an hallu 
 cination. 
 
 Before daybreak I bandaged the wounds 
 that I had received in the face. Then only 
 did I pluck up enough courage to return to 
 the other room. Twice I started, only to 
 turn back; but it must be done, so I entered. 
 Even then, I did not at first go to the bed. My 
 legs shook, my heart pounded. I thought of 
 flight; but that would have been a confession 
 of the crime. ... It was on the contrary very 
 important for me to hide all traces of it. I 
 approached the bed. I looked at the corpse, 
 with its widely distended eyes and its mouth 
 gaping, as if uttering the eternal reproach of 
 the centuries: "Cain, what hast thou done 
 with thy brother?" I discovered on the neck 
 the marks of my nails; I buttoned the shirt 
 to the top, and threw the bed-cover up to the 
 dead man's chin. Then I called a servant 
 and told him that the colonel had died to 
 wards morning; I sent him to notify the vicar 
 and the doctor. 
 
 The first idea that came to me was to 
 
54 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 leave as soon as possible under the pretext 
 that my brother was ill ; and in reality I had 
 received, several days before, from Rio, a 
 letter telling me that he was not at all well. 
 But I considered that my immediate depar 
 ture might arouse suspicion, and I decided to 
 wait. I laid out the corpse myself, with the 
 assistance of an old, near-sighted negro. I 
 remained continually in the room of the dead. 
 I trembled lest something out of the way 
 should be discovered. I wanted to assure 
 myself that no mistrust could be read upon 
 the faces of the others; but I did not dare to 
 look any person in the eye. Everything 
 made me impatient; the going and coming of 
 those who, on tip-toe crossed the room ; their 
 whisperings ; the ceremonies and the prayers 
 of the vicar. . . . The hour having come, I 
 closed the coffin, but with trembling hands, 
 so trembling that somebody noticed it and 
 commented upon it aloud, with pity. 
 
 "Poor Procopio! Despite what he has suf 
 fered from his master, he is strongly moved." 
 
 It sounded like irony to me. I was anxious 
 to have it all over with. We went out. Once 
 in the street the passing from semi-obscurity 
 to daylight dazed me and I staggered. I be 
 gan to fear that it would no longer be pos 
 sible for me to conceal the crime. I kept my 
 
THE ATTENDANT'S CONFESSION 55 
 
 eyes steadily fixed upon the ground and took 
 my place in the procession. When all was 
 over, I breathed once more. I was at peace 
 with man. But I was not at peace with my 
 conscience, and the first nights, naturally, I 
 spent in restlessness and affliction. Need I 
 tell you that I hastened to return to Rio de 
 Janeiro, and that I dwelt there in terror and 
 suspense, although far removed from the 
 scene of the crime? I never smiled; I 
 scarcely spoke; I ate very little; I suffered 
 hallucinations and nightmares. . . . 
 
 "Let the dead rest in peace," they would 
 say to me. "It is out of all reason to show 
 so much melancholy." 
 
 And I was happy to find how people inter 
 preted my symptoms, and praised the dead 
 man highly, calling him a good soul, surly, in 
 truth, but with a heart of gold. And as I 
 spoke in such wise, I convinced myself, at 
 least for a few moments at a time. Another 
 interesting phenomenon was taking place 
 within me I tell it to you because you will 
 perhaps make some useful deduction from 
 it and that was, although I had very little 
 religion in me, I had a mass sung for the 
 eternal rest of the colonel at the Church of 
 the Blessed Sacrament. I sent out no invi 
 tations to it, I did not whisper a word of it 
 
56 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 to anybody; I went there alone. I knelt 
 during the whole service and made many 
 signs of the cross. I paid the priest double 
 and distributed alms at the door, all in the 
 name of the deceased. 
 
 I wished to deceive nobody. The proof of 
 this lies in the fact that I did all this without 
 letting any other know. To complete this 
 incident, I may add that I never mentioned 
 the colonel without repeating, "May his soul 
 rest in peace!" And I told several funny 
 anecdotes about him, some amusing caprices 
 of his ... 
 
 About a week after my arrival at Rio I re 
 ceived a letter from the vicar. He announced 
 that the will of the colonel had been opened 
 and that I was there designated as his sole 
 heir. Imagine my stupefaction! I was sure 
 that I had read wrongly; I showed it to my 
 brother, to friends; they all read the same 
 thing. It was there in black and white, I was 
 really the sole heir of the colonel. Then I 
 suddenly thought that this was a trap to 
 catch me, but then I considered that there 
 were other ways of arresting me, if the crime 
 had been discovered. Moreover, I knew the 
 vicar's honesty, and I was sure that he 
 would not be a party to such a plan. I re 
 read the letter five times, ten times, a hun- 
 
THE ATTENDANT'S CONFESSION 57 
 
 dred times; it was true. I was the colonel's 
 sole heir! 
 
 "How much was he worth?" my brother 
 asked me. 
 
 "I don't know, but I know that he was very 
 wealthy." 
 
 "Really, he's shown that he was a very 
 true friend to you." 
 
 "He certainly was he was. ..." 
 
 Thus, by a strange irony of fate, all the 
 colonel's wealth came into my hands. At 
 first I thought of refusing the legacy. It 
 seemed odious to take a sou of that inherit 
 ance; it seemed worse than the reward of a 
 hired assassin. For three days this thought 
 obsessed me; but more and more I was 
 thrust against this consideration: that my re 
 fusal would not fail to awake suspicion. 
 Finally I settled upon a compromise ; I would 
 accept the inheritance and would distribute 
 it in small sums, secretly. 
 
 This was not merely scruple on my part, it 
 was also the desire to redeem my crime by 
 virtuous deeds; and it seemed the only way 
 to recover my peace of mind and feel that 
 accounts were straight. 
 
 I made hurried preparations and left. As 
 I neared the little village the sad event re 
 turned obstinately to my memory. Every 
 
58 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 thing about the place, as I looked at it once 
 again, suggested tragic deeds. At 3very turn 
 in the road I seemed to see the ghost of the 
 colonel loom. And despite myself, I evoked 
 in my imagination his cries, his struggles, 
 his looks on that horrible night of the 
 crime. . . . 
 
 Crime or struggle? Really, it was rather 
 a struggle; I had been attacked, I had de 
 fended myself; and in self-defence. ... It had 
 been an unfortunate struggle, a genuine tra 
 gedy. This idea gripped me. And I reviewed 
 all the abuse he had heaped upon me; I 
 counted the blows, the names ... It was not 
 the colonel's fault, that I knew well; it was 
 his affliction that made him so peevish and 
 even wicked. But I pardoned all, every 
 thing! . . . The worst of it was the end of that 
 fatal night ... I also considered that in any 
 case the colonel had not long to live. His days 
 were numbered; did not he himself feel that? 
 Didn't he say every now and then, "How 
 much longer have I to live? Two weeks, or 
 one, perhaps less?" 
 
 This was not life, it was slow agony, if one 
 may so name the continual martyrdom of 
 that poor man. . . . And who knows, who can 
 say that the struggle and his death were not 
 simply a coincidence? That was after all 
 
THE ATTENDANT'S CONFESSION 59 
 
 quite possible, it was even most probable; 
 careful weighing of the matter showed that 
 it couldn't have been otherwise. At length 
 this idea, too, engraved itself upon my 
 mind. . . . 
 
 Something tugged at my heart as I entered 
 the village; I wanted to run back; but I 
 dominated my emotions and I pressed for 
 ward. I was received with a shower of con 
 gratulations. The vicar communicated to 
 me the particulars of the will, enumerated 
 the pious gifts, and, as he spoke, praised the 
 Christian forbearance and the faithfulness 
 which I had shown in my care of the de 
 ceased, who, despite his temper and brutality, 
 had so well demonstrated his gratitude. 
 
 "Certainly," I said, looking nervously 
 around. 
 
 I was astounded. Everybody praised my 
 conduct. Such patience, such devotion. The 
 first formalities of the inventory detained me 
 for a while; I chose a solicitor; things fol 
 lowed their course in regular fashion. Dur 
 ing this time there was much talk of the 
 colonel. People came and told me tales 
 about him, but without observing the priest's 
 moderation. I defended the memory of the 
 colonel. I recalled his good qualities, his 
 virtues; had he not been austere? . . . 
 
60 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 "Austere!" they would interrupt. "Non 
 sense! He is dead, and it's all over now. 
 But he was a regular demon!" 
 
 And they would cite incidents and relate 
 the colonel's perversities, some of which 
 were nothing less than extraordinary. 
 
 Need I confess it? At first I listened to 
 all this talk with great curiosity; then, a 
 queer pleasure pentrated my heart, a pleas 
 ure from which, sincerely, I tried to escape. 
 And I continued to defend the colonel; I ex 
 plained him, I attributed much of the fault 
 finding to local animosity; I admitted, yes, 
 I admitted that he had been a trifle exacting, 
 somewhat violent. . . . 
 
 "Somewhat! Why he was as furious as a 
 snake!" exclaimed the barber. 
 
 And all the collector, the apothecary, the 
 clerk all were of the same opinion. And 
 they would start to relate other anecdotes. 
 They reviewed the entire life of the deceased. 
 The old folks took particular delight in re 
 calling the cruelties of his youth. And that 
 queer pleasure, intimate, mute, insidious, 
 grew within me a sort of moral tape-worm 
 whose coils I tore out in vain, for they would 
 immediately form again and take firmer hold 
 than ever. 
 
 The formalities of the inventory afforded 
 
THE ATTENDANT'S CONFESSION 61 
 
 me a little relief; moreover, public opinion 
 was so unanimously unfavorable to the col 
 onel that little by little the place lost the 
 lugubrious aspect that had at first struck me. 
 At last I entered into possession of the 
 legacy, which I converted into land-titles and 
 cash. 
 
 Several months had elapsed, and the idea 
 of distributing the inheritance in charity and 
 pious donations was by no means so strong 
 as it had at first been; it even seemed to me 
 that this would be sheer affectation. I revised 
 my initial plan; I gave away several insigni 
 ficant sums to the poor; I presented the vil 
 lage church with a few new ornaments; I 
 gave several thousand francs to the Sacred 
 House of Mercy, etc. I did not forget to 
 erect a monument upon the colonel's grave 
 a very simple monument, all marble, the 
 work of a Neapolitan sculptor who remained 
 at Rio until 1866, and who has since died, I 
 believe, in Paraguay. 
 
 Years have gone by. My memory has be 
 come vague and unreliable. Sometimes I 
 think of the colonel, but without feeling 
 again the terrors of those early days. All 
 the doctors to whom I have described his af 
 flictions have been unanimous as regards 
 the inevitable en(J in store for the invalid. 
 
62 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 and were indeed surprised that he should so 
 long have resisted. It is just possible that I 
 may have involuntarily exaggerated the des 
 cription of his various symptoms; but the 
 truth is that he was sure of sudden death, 
 even had this fatality not occurred. . . . 
 
 Good-bye, my dear sir. If you deem these 
 notes not totally devoid of value reward me 
 for them with a marble tomb, and place there 
 for my epitaph this variant which I have 
 made of the divine sermon on the mount: 
 
 "Blessed are they who possess, for they 
 shall be consoled." 
 
THE FORTUNE-TELLER 
 
THE FORTUNE-TELLER 
 
 BY JOAQUIM MARIA MACHADO DE Assis 
 
 HAMLET observes to Horatio that 
 there are more things in heaven 
 and earth than are dreamt of in 
 our philosophy. This was the selfsame ex 
 planation that was given by beautiful Rita to 
 her lover, Camillo, on a certain Friday of No 
 vember, 1869, when Camillo laughed at her 
 for having gone, the previous evening, to 
 consult a fortune-teller. The only difference 
 is that she made her explanation in other 
 words. 
 
 "Laugh, laugh. That's just like you men; 
 you don't believe in anything. Well, let me 
 tell you, I went there and she guessed the 
 reason for my coming before I ever spoke a 
 word. Scarcely had she begun to lay out 
 the cards when she said to me: 'The lady 
 likes a certain person . . . ' I confessed that 
 it was so, and then she continued to rear 
 range the cards in various combinations, 
 finally telling me that I was afraid you would 
 forget me, but that there were no grounds 
 for my fear." 
 
 65 
 
66 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 "She was wrong!" interrupted Camillo 
 with a laugh. 
 
 "Don't say that, Camillo. If you only 
 realized in what anguish I went there, all on 
 account of you. You know. I've told you 
 before. Don't laugh at me; don't poke fun at 
 me ..." 
 
 Camillo seized her hands and gazed into 
 her eyes earnestly and long. He swore that 
 he loved her ever so much, that her fears 
 were childish; in any case, should she ever 
 harbor a fear, the best fortune-teller to con 
 sult was he himself. Then he reproved her, 
 saying that it was imprudent to visit such 
 houses. Villela might learn of it, and 
 then . . . 
 
 "Impossible! I was exceedingly careful 
 when I entered the place." 
 
 "Where is the house?" 
 
 "Near here. On Guarda-Velha Street. 
 Nobody was passing by at the time. Rest 
 easy. I'm not a fool." 
 
 Camillo laughed again. 
 
 "Do you really believe in such things?" he 
 asked. 
 
 It was at this point that she translated 
 Hamlet into every-day speech, assuring her 
 lover that there was many a true, mysterious 
 thing in this world. If he was skeptical, let 
 
THE FORTUNE-TELLER 67 
 
 him have patience. One thing, however, was 
 certain: the card reader had guessed every 
 thing. What more could he desire? The 
 best proof wag that at this moment she was 
 at ease and content. 
 
 He was about to speak, but he restrained 
 himself. He did not wish to destroy her il 
 lusions. He, too, when a child, and even 
 later, had been superstitious, filled with an 
 arsenal of beliefs which his mother had in 
 stilled, and which had disappeared by the 
 time he reached twenty. The day on which 
 he rid himself of all this parasitic vegetation, 
 leaving behind only the trunk of religion, 
 he wrapped his superstition and his religion 
 (which had both been inculcated by his 
 mother) in the same doubt, and soon arrived 
 at a single, total negation. Camillo believed 
 in nothing. Why? He could not have an 
 swered ; he had not a solitary reason ; he was 
 content simply to deny everything. But I 
 express myself ill, for to deny is in a sense to 
 affirm, and he did not formulate his unbelief. 
 Before the great mystery he simply shrugged 
 his shoulders and went on. 
 
 The lovers parted in good spirits, he more 
 happy than she. Rita was sure that she was 
 loved ; but Camillo was not only sure that she 
 loved him, but saw how she trembled for him 
 
68 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 and even took risks, running to fortune-tel 
 lers. However much he had reproved her for 
 this, he could not help feeling flattered by it. 
 Their secret meeting-place was in the old 
 Barbonos street at the home of a woman 
 that came from Rita's province. Rita 
 went off through Mangueiras street, in the 
 direction of Botafogo, where she resided; 
 Camillo entered Guarda-Velha street, keep 
 ing his eye open, as he passed, for the home 
 of the card reader. 
 
 Villela, Camillo and Rita: three names, one 
 adventure and no explanation of how it all 
 began. Let us proceed to explain. The first 
 two were friends since earliest childhood. 
 Villela had entered the magistracy. Camillo 
 found employment with the government, 
 against the will of his father, who desired him 
 to embrace the medical profession. But his 
 father had died, and Camillo preferred to be 
 nothing at all, until his mother had procured 
 him a departmental position. At the begin 
 ning of the year 1869 Villela returned from 
 the interior, where he had married a silly 
 beauty; he abandoned the magistracy and 
 came hither to open a lawyer's office. Ca 
 millo had secured a house for him near Bota 
 fogo and had welcomed him home. 
 
 "Is this the gentleman?" exclaimed Rita, 
 
THE FORTUNE-TELLER 69 
 
 offering Camillo her hand. "You can't 
 imagine how highly my husband thinks of 
 you. He was always talking about you." 
 
 Camillo and Villela looked at each other 
 tenderly. They were true friends. After 
 wards, Camillo confessed to himself that Vil- 
 lela's wife did not at all belie the enthusiastic 
 letters her husband had written to him. 
 Really, she was most prepossessing, lively in 
 her movements, her eyes burning, her mouth 
 plastic and piquantly inquiring. Rita was a 
 trifle older than both the men: she was thirty, 
 Villela twenty-nine and Camillo twenty-six. 
 The grave bearing of Villela gave him the 
 appearance of being much older than his 
 wife, while Camillo was but a child in moral 
 and practical life. ... He possessed neither 
 experience nor intuition. 
 
 The three became closely bound. Propin 
 quity bred intimacy. Shortly afterwards 
 Camillo's mother died, and in this catas 
 trophe, for such it was, the other two showed 
 themselves to be genuine friends of his. Vil 
 lela took charge of the interment, of the 
 church services and the settlement of the af 
 fairs of the deceased; Rita dispensed conso 
 lation, and none could do it better. 
 
 Just how this intimacy between Camillo 
 and Rita grew to love he never knew. The 
 
70 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 truth is that he enjoyed passing the hours at 
 her side; she was his spiritual nurse, almost 
 a sister, but most of all she was a woman, 
 and beautiful. The aroma of femininity: this 
 is what he yearned for in her, and about her, 
 seeking to incorporate it into himself. They 
 read the same books, they went together to 
 the theatre or for walks. He taught her 
 cards and chess, and they played of nights; 
 she badly, he, to make himself agreeable, 
 but little less badly. Thus much, as far as 
 external things are concerned. And now 
 came personal intimacies, the timorous eyes 
 of Rita, that so often sought his own, con 
 sulting them before they questioned those of 
 her own husband, the touches of cold 
 hands, and unwonted communion. On one 
 of his birthdays he received from Villela a 
 costly cane, and from Rita, a hastily pen 
 cilled, ordinary note expressing good wishes. 
 It was then that he learned to read within 
 his own heart; he could not tear his eyes 
 away from the missive. Commonplace 
 words, it is true ; but there are sublime com 
 monplaces, or at least, delightful ones. The 
 old chaise in which for the first time you 
 rode with your beloved, snuggled together, 
 is as good as the chariot of Apollo. Such is 
 
THE FORTUNE-TELLER 71 
 
 man, and such are the circumstances that 
 surround him. 
 
 Camillo sincerely wished to flee the situ 
 ation, but it was already beyond his power. 
 Rita, like a serpent, was charming him, wind 
 ing her coils about him; she was crushing 
 his bones, darting her venemous fangs into 
 his lips. He was helpless, overcome. Vexa 
 tion, fear, remorse, desire, all this he felt, 
 in a strange confusion. But the battle was 
 short and the victory deliriously intoxicating. 
 Farewell, all scruple! The shoe now fitted 
 snugly enough upon the foot, and there they 
 were both, launched upon the high road, arm 
 in arm, joyfully treading the grass and the 
 gravel, without suffering anything more than 
 lonesomeness when they were away from 
 each other. As to Villela, his confidence in 
 his wife and his esteem for his friend con 
 tinued the same as before. 
 
 One day, however, Camillo received an 
 anonymous letter, which called him immor 
 al and perfidious, and warned him that his 
 adventure was known to all. Camillo took 
 fright, and, in order to ward off suspicion, 
 began to make his visits to Villela's house 
 more rare. The latter asked him the reason 
 for his prolonged absence. Camillo an 
 swered that the cause was a youthful flirta- 
 
72 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 tion. Simplicity evolved into cunning. Ca- 
 millo's absences became longer and longer, 
 and then his visits ceased entirely. Into this 
 course there may have entered a little self- 
 respect, the idea of diminishing his obliga 
 tions to the husband in order to make his 
 own actions appear less treacherous. 
 
 It was at this juncture that Rita, uncertain 
 and in fear, ran to the fortune-teller to con 
 sult her upon the real reason for Camillo's 
 actions. As we have seen, the card reader 
 restored the wife's confidence and the young 
 man reproved her for having done what she 
 did. A few weeks passed. Camillo received 
 two or three more anonymous letters, writ 
 ten with such passionate anger that they 
 could not have been prompted by mere re 
 gard for virtue ; surely they came from some 
 violent rival of his. In this opinion Rita con 
 curred, formulating, in ill-composed words of 
 her own, this thought: virtue is indolent and 
 niggardly, wasting neither time nor paper; 
 only self-interest is alert and prodigal. 
 
 But this did not help to ease Camillo; he 
 now feared lest the anonymous writer should 
 inform Villela, in which case the catastrophe 
 would follow fast and implacably. Rita 
 agreed that this was possible. 
 
 "Very well/' she said. "Give me the en- 
 
THE FORTUNE-TELLER 73 
 
 velopes in which the letters came, so that I 
 may compare the handwriting with that of 
 the mail which comes to him. If any ar 
 rives with writing resembling the anonymous 
 script, I'll keep it and tear it up ..." 
 
 But no such letter appeared. A short time 
 after this, however, Villela commenced to 
 grow grave, speaking very little, as if some 
 thing weighed upon his mind. Rita hurried 
 to communicate the change to her lover, and 
 they discussed the matter earnestly. Her 
 opinion was that Camillo should renew his 
 visits to their home, and sound her husband ; 
 it might be that Villela would confide to him 
 some business worry. With this Camillo dis 
 agreed; to appear after so many months was 
 to confirm the suspicions and denunciations 
 of the anonymous letters. It was better to 
 be very careful, to give each other up for 
 several weeks. They arranged means for 
 communicating with each other in case of 
 necessity and separated, in tears. 
 
 On the following day Camillo received at 
 his department this letter from Villela: 
 "Come immediately to our house; I must talk 
 to you without delay." It was past noon. 
 Camillo left at once; as he reached the 
 street it occurred to him that it would have 
 been much more natural for Villela to have 
 
74 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 called him to his office; why to his house? 
 All this betokened a very urgent matter; 
 moreover, whether it was reality or illusion, 
 it seemed to Camillo that the letter was writ 
 ten in a trembling hand. He sought to es 
 tablish a connection between all these things 
 and the news Rita had brought him the night 
 before. 
 
 "Come immediately to our house; I must 
 talk to you without delay," he repeated, his 
 eyes staring at the note. 
 
 In his mind's eye he beheld the climax of a 
 drama, Rita cowed, weeping; Villela indig 
 nant, seizing his pen and dashing off the let 
 ter, certain that he, Camillo, would answer 
 in person, and waiting to kill him as he en 
 tered. Camillo shuddered with terror; then 
 he smiled weakly; in any event the idea of 
 drawing back was repugnant to him. So he 
 continued on his way. As he walked it oc 
 curred to him to step into his rooms; he 
 might find there a message from Rita ex 
 plaining everything. But he found nothing, 
 nobody. He returned to the street, and the 
 thought that they had been discovered grew 
 every moment more convincing; yes, the 
 author of the previous anonymous communi 
 cations must have denounced him to the hus 
 band ; perhaps by now Villela knew all. The 
 
THE FORTUNE-TELLER 75 
 
 very suspension of his calls without any ap 
 parent reason, with the flimsiest of pretexts, 
 would confirm everything else. 
 
 Camillo walked hastily along, agitated, 
 nervous. He did not read the letter again, 
 but the words hovered persistently before his 
 eyes; or else, which was even worse they 
 seemed to be murmured into his ears by the 
 voice of Villela himself. "Come immediately 
 to our house ; I must talk to you without de 
 lay." Spoken thus by the voice of the other 
 they seemed pregnant with mystery and 
 menace. Come immediately, why? It was 
 now nearly one o'clock. Camillo's agitation 
 waxed greater with each passing moment. 
 So clearly did he imagine what was about to 
 take place that 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 this useful precaution. But at once he 
 rejected the idea, angry with himself, and 
 hastened his step towards Carioca square, 
 there to take a tilbury. He arrived, entered 
 and ordered the driver to be off at full speed. 
 
 "The sooner the better," he thought. "I 
 can't stand this uncertainty." 
 
 But the very sound of the horse's clatter- 
 
76 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 ing hoofs increased his agitation. Time was 
 flying, and he would be face to face with 
 clanger soon enough. When they had come 
 almost to the end of Guarda-Velha street the 
 tilbury had to come to a stop ; the thorough 
 fare was blocked by a coach that had broken 
 down. Camillo surveyed the obstruction 
 and decided to wait. After five minutes had 
 gone by, he noticed that there at his left, at 
 the very foot of the tilbury, was the fortune 
 teller's house, the very same as Rita had 
 once consulted. Never, as at this moment, 
 had he so desired to believe in card-reading. 
 He looked closer, saw that the windows were 
 closed, while all the others on the street were 
 opened, filled with folks curious to see what 
 was the matter. It looked for all the world 
 like the dwelling of indifferent Fate. 
 
 Camillo leaned back in his seat so as to 
 shut all this from view. His excitement was 
 intense, extraordinary, and from the deep, 
 hidden recesses of his mind there began to 
 emerge spectres of early childhood, old be 
 liefs, banished superstitions. The coach 
 man proposed another route; he shook his 
 head and said that he would wait. He leaned 
 forward to get a better look at the card- 
 reader's house . . . Then he made a gesture of 
 self-ridicule: it had entered his mind to con- 
 
THE FORTUNE-TELLER 77 
 
 suit the fortune-teller, who seemed to be 
 hovering over him, far, far above, with vast, 
 ash-colored wings; she disappeared, reap 
 peared, and then her image was lost; then, 
 in a few moments, the ash-colored wings 
 stirred again, nearer, flying about him in 
 narrowing circles ... In the street men were 
 shouting, dragging away the coach. 
 "There! Now! Push! That's it! Now!" 
 In a short while the obstruction was re 
 moved. Camillo closed his eyes, trying to 
 think of other things ; but the voice of Rita's 
 husband whispered into his ears the words of 
 the letter: "Come immediately ..." And he 
 could behold the anguish of the drama. He 
 trembled. The house seemed to look right 
 at him. His feet instinctively moved as if to 
 leave the carriage and go in ... Camillo 
 found himself before a long, opaque veil . . . 
 he thought rapidly of the inexplicability of 
 so many things. The voice of his mother 
 was repeating to him a host of extraordinary 
 happenings; and the very sentence of the 
 Prince of Denmark kept echoing within him: 
 
 "There are more things In heaven and earth, 
 
 Horatio, 
 Than are dreamt of in our philosophy." 
 
78 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 What could he lose by it, if . . . ? 
 
 He jumped out to the pavement, just be 
 fore the fortune-teller's door; he told the 
 driver to wait for him, and hastened into the 
 entry, ascending the stairs. There was lit 
 tle light, the stairs were worn away from the 
 many feet that had sought them, the banis 
 ter was smooth and sticky; but he saw and 
 felt nothing. He stumbled up the stairs and 
 knocked. Nobody appearing, he was about 
 to go down; but it was too late now, 
 curiosity was whipping his blood and his 
 heart beat with violent throbs; he turned 
 back to the door, and knocked once, twice, 
 three times. He beheld a woman ; it was the 
 card-reader. Camillo said that he had come 
 to consult her, and she bade him enter. 
 Thence they climbed to the attic by a stair 
 case even worse than the first and buried in 
 deeper gloom. At the top there was a gar 
 ret, ill lighted by a small window. Old furni 
 ture, somber walls, and an air of poverty 
 augumented, rather than destroyed, the pres 
 tige of the occupant. 
 
 The fortune-teller told him to be seated be 
 fore the table, and she sat down on the op 
 posite side with her back to the window, so 
 that whatever little light came from without 
 fell full upon Camillo's face. She opened a 
 
THE FORTUNE-TELLER 79 
 
 drawer and took out a pack of worn, filthy 
 cards. While she rapidly shuffled them she 
 peered at him closely, not so much with a 
 direct gaze as from under her eyes. She was 
 a woman of forty, Italian, thin and swarthy, 
 with large, sharp, cunning eyes. She placed 
 three cards upon the table, and said: 
 
 "Let us first see what has brought you 
 here. The gentleman has just received a 
 severe shock and is in great fear ..." 
 
 Camillo, astonished, nodded affirmatively. 
 
 "And he wishes to know," she continued, 
 "whether anything will happen to him or 
 not ... " 
 
 "To me and to her," he explained, excited 
 ly. 
 
 The fortune-teller did not smile; she sim 
 ply told him to wait. She took the cards 
 hastily once more and shuffled them with her 
 long tapering fingers whose nails were so 
 long and unclean from neglect; she shuffled 
 them well, once, twice, thrice; then she be 
 gan 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 told him to 
 fear nothing. Nothing would happen to him 
 or to the other. He, the third, was aware of 
 
80 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 nought. Nevertheless, great caution was in 
 dispensable; envy and rivalry were at work. 
 She spoke to him of the love that bound 
 them, of Rita's beauty . . . Camillo was be 
 wildered. The fortune-teller stopped talk 
 ing, gathered the cards and locked them in 
 the drawer. 
 
 "The lady has restored peace to my spirit," 
 he said, offering her his hand across the 
 table and pressing that of the card-reader. 
 
 She arose, laughing. 
 
 "Go," she said. "Go, ragazzo innamo- 
 rato . . . ' J1 
 
 And arising, she touched his head with her 
 index finger. Camillo shuddered, as if it were 
 the hand of one of the original sybils, and he, 
 too, arose. The fortune-teller went to the 
 bureau, upon which lay a plate 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 not know her fee. 
 
 "Raisins cost money," he said, at length, 
 taking out his pocket-book. "How much do 
 you want to send for?" 
 
 ^Italian for "love-sick boy," young lover," etc. 
 
THE FORTUNE-TELLER 81 
 
 "Ask your heart," she replied. 
 
 Camillo took out a note for ten milreis' 2 
 and gave it to her. The eyes of the card- 
 reader sparkled. Her usual fee was two 
 milreis. 
 
 "I can see easily that the gentleman loves 
 his lady very much . . . And well he may. 
 For she loves the gentleman very deeply, too. 
 Go, go in peace, with your mind at ease. 
 And take care as you descend the staircase, 
 it's dark. Don't forget your hat ..." 
 
 The fortune-teller had already placed the 
 note in her pocket, and accompanied him 
 down the stairs, chatting rather gaily. At 
 the bottom of the first flight Camillo bid her 
 good-bye and ran down the stairs that led to 
 the street, while the card-reader, rejoicing in 
 her large fee, turned back to the garret, hum 
 ming a barcarolle. Camillo found the til 
 bury waiting for him; the street was now 
 clear. He. entered and the driver whipped 
 his horse into a fast trot. 
 
 To Camillo everything had now changed 
 for the better and his affairs assumed a 
 brighter aspect; the sky was clear and the 
 faces of the people he passed were all so 
 merry. He even began to laugh at his 
 
 2 In United States money ten Brazilian milreis are 
 equivalent to about $5.50. 
 
82 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 fears, which he now saw were puerile ; he re 
 called the language of Villela's letter and 
 perceived at once that it was most friend 
 ly and familiar. How in the world had he 
 ever been able to read any threat of danger 
 into those words ! He suddenly realized that 
 they were urgent, however, and that he had 
 done ill to delay so long; it might be some 
 very serious business affair. 
 
 "Faster, faster!" he cried to the driver. 
 
 And he began to think of a plausible ex 
 planation of his delay; he even contemplated 
 taking advantage of this incident to re-estab 
 lish his former intimacy in Villela's house 
 hold . . . Together with his plans there kept 
 echoing in his soul the words of the fortune 
 teller. In truth, 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 to suppose that she had guessed 
 the rest correctly, too? For, the unknown 
 present is the same as the future. And thus, 
 slowly and persistently the young man's 
 childhood superstitions attained the upper 
 hand and mystery clutched him in its iron 
 claws. At times he was ready to burst into 
 laughter, and with a certain vexation he did 
 laugh at himself. But the woman, the cards, 
 her dry, reassuring words, and her good-bye 
 
THE FORTUNE-TELLER 83 
 
 "Go, go, ragazzo innamorato" and finally, 
 that farewell barcarolle, so lively and gra 
 cious, such were the new elements which, 
 together with the old, formed within him a 
 new and abiding faith. 
 
 The truth is that his heart was happy and 
 impatient, recalling the happy hours of the 
 past and anticipating those yet to come. As 
 he passed through Gloria street Camillo 
 gazed across the sea, far across where the 
 waters and the heaven meet in endless em 
 brace, and the sight gave him a sensation of 
 the future, long, long and infinite. 
 
 From here it was but a moment's drive to 
 Villela's home. He stepped out, thrust the 
 iron garden gate open and entered. The 
 house was silent. He ran up the six stone 
 steps and scarcely had he had time to knock 
 when the door opened and Villela loomed 
 before him. 
 
 "Pardon my delay. It was impossible to 
 come sooner. What is the matter?" 
 
 Villela made no reply. His features were 
 distorted; he beckoned Camillo to step with 
 in. As he entered, Camillo could not repress 
 a cry of horror: there upon the sofa lay 
 Rita, dead in a pool of blood. Villela seized 
 the lover by the throat and, with two bullets, 
 stretched him dead upon the floor. 
 
LIFE 
 
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 of eternity. The earth is deserted ; 
 no other man breathes the air of life. I am 
 the last; I can die. Die! Precious thought! 
 For centuries of centuries I have lived, 
 wearied, mortified, wandering ever, but now 
 the centuries are coming to an end, and I 
 shall die with them. Ancient nature, fare 
 well! Azure sky, clouds ever reborn, roses 
 of a day and of every day, perennial waters, 
 hostile earth that never would devour my 
 bones, farewell! The eternal wanderer will 
 wander no longer. God may pardon me if 
 He wishes, but death will console me. That 
 87 
 
88 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 mountain is as unyielding as my grief; those 
 eagles that fly yonder must be as famished 
 as my despair. Shall you, too, die, divine 
 eagles? 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 Of a surety the race of man is perished; 
 the earth is bare of them. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 I hear a voice. . . . The voice of a human 
 being? Implacable heavens, am I not then 
 the last? He approaches. . . . Who are you? 
 There shines in your large eyes something 
 like the mysterious light of the archangels 
 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? You are not a human being; 
 then I may die; for I am the last and I close 
 the gate of life. 
 
LIFE 89 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 Life, like ancient Thebes, has a hundred 
 gates. You close one, and others will open. 
 You are the last of your species? Then an 
 other better species will come, made not of 
 clay, but of the light itself. 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 ages will be recti 
 fied. Evil will end; the winds will thence 
 forth scatter neither the germs of death nor 
 the clamor of the oppressed, but only the 
 song of love everlasting and the benediction 
 of universal justice .... 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 What can all this posthumous joy matter to 
 the species that dies with me? Believe me, 
 you who are immortal, to the bones that rot 
 in the earth the purples of Sidonia are worth 
 less. What you tell me is even better than 
 what Campanella dreamed. In that man's 
 ideal city there were delights and ills; yours 
 excludes all mortal and physical ailments. 
 May the Lord hear you! But let me go and 
 die. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 Go, go. But why this haste to end your 
 days? 
 
90 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 The haste of a man who has lived for thou 
 sands of years. Yes, thousands of years. 
 Men who existed scarcely scores of them in 
 vented a feeling of ennui, tedium vitae, which 
 they could never know, at least in all its im 
 placable and vast reality, because it is neces 
 sary to have journeyed through all the gene 
 rations and all the cataclysms to feel that 
 profound surfeit of existence. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 Thousands of years? 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 My name is Ahasverus; I dwelt in Jerusa 
 lem at the time they were about to crucify 
 Christ. When he passed my door he weak 
 ened under the burden of the beam that he 
 carried on his shoulders, and I thrust him 
 onward, admonishing him not to stop, not to 
 rest, to continue on his way to the hill where 
 he was to be crucified. . . . Then there came 
 a voice from heaven, telling me that I, too, 
 should have to journey forever, continuously, 
 until the end of time. Such was my crime; 
 I felt no pity for him who was going to his 
 death. I do not know myself how it came 
 about. The Pharisees said that the son of 
 
LIFE 91 
 
 Mary had come to destroy the law, and that 
 he must be slain ; I, ignorant wretch, wished 
 to display my zeal and hence my action of 
 that day. How many times have I seen the 
 same thing since, traveling unceasingly 
 through cities and ages! Whenever zealotry 
 penetrated into a submissive soul, it became 
 cruel or ridiculous. My crime was unpar 
 donable. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 A grave crime, in truth, but the punish 
 ment 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 who has 
 read them all, connects them and concludes. 
 Are there melancholy pages? There are 
 merry and happy ones, too. Tragic convul 
 sion precedes that of laughter; life burgeons 
 from death; swans and swallows change cli 
 mate, without ever abandoning it entirely; 
 and thus all is harmonized and begun anew. 
 You have beheld this, not ten times, not a 
 thousand times, but ever; you have beheld 
 the magnificence of the earth curing the af 
 fliction of the soul, and the joy of the soul 
 compensating for the desolation of things; 
 the alternating dance of Nature, who gives 
 
92 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 her left hand to Job and her right to Sar- 
 danapalus. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 What do you know of my life? Nothing; 
 you are ignorant of human existence. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 I, ignorant of human life? How laugh 
 able! Come, perpetual man, explain your 
 self. Tell me everything; you left Jerusa 
 lem . . . 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 I left Jerusalem. I began my wandering 
 through the ages. I journeyed everywhere, 
 whatever the race, the creed, the tongue; 
 suns and snows, barbarous and civilized 
 peoples, islands, continents; wherever a man 
 breathed, there breathed I. I never labored. 
 Labor is a refuge, and that refuge was de 
 nied me. Every morning I found upon me 
 the necessary money for the day . . . See; 
 this is the last apportionment. Go, for I 
 need you no longer. (He draws forth the 
 money and throws It away.) I did not work; I 
 just journeyed, ever and ever, one day after 
 another, year after year unendingly, century 
 after century. Eternal justice knew what it 
 was doing; it added idleness to eternity. One 
 
LIFE 93 
 
 generation bequeathed me to the other. The 
 languages, as they died, preserved my name 
 like a fossil. With the passing of time all 
 was forgotten; the heroes faded into myths, 
 into shadow, and history crumbled to frag 
 ments, only two or three vague, remote 
 characteristics remaining to it. And I saw 
 them in changing aspect. You spoke 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 im 
 pression of their perpetuity; those who die at 
 their fall, are buried in the hope of their res 
 toration ; but do you not realize what it is to 
 see the same things unceasingly, the same 
 alternation of prosperity and desolation, 
 desolation and prosperity, eternal obsequies 
 and eternal halleluiahs, dawn upon dawn, 
 sunset upon sunset? 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 But you did not suffer, I believe. It is 
 something not to suffer. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 Yes, but I saw other men suffer, and in the 
 end the spectacle of joy gave me the same 
 sensations as the discourses of an idiot. Fa 
 talities of flesh and blood, unending strife, 
 
94 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 I saw all pass before my eyes, until night 
 caused me to lose my taste for day, and now 
 I cannot distinguish flowers from thistles. 
 Everything is confused in my wearied retina. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 But nothing pained you personally; and 
 what about me, from time immemorial suf 
 fering 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 the first men, and afterwards, 
 seized with compassion, I stole for them fire 
 from the sky. Such was my crime. Jupi 
 ter, who then reigned over Olympus, con 
 demned me to the most cruel of tortures. 
 Come, climb this rock with me. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 You are telling me a tale. I know that 
 Hellenic myth. 
 
LIFE 95 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 Incredulous old fellow! Come see the 
 very chains that fettered me; it was an ex 
 cessive penalty for no crime whatever; but 
 divine 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. Vul 
 can forged them. Two emissaries from 
 heaven came to secure me to the rock, and 
 an eagle, like that which now is flying across 
 the horizon, kept gnawing at my liver with 
 out ever consuming it. This lasted for time 
 beyond my reckoning. No, no, you cannot 
 imagine this torture . . . 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 Are you not deceiving me? You, Prome 
 theus? Was that not, then, a figment of the 
 ancient imagination? 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 Look well at me; touch these hands. See 
 whether I really exist. 
 
96 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 Then Moses lied to me. You are Prome 
 theus, creator of the first men? 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 That was my crime. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 Yes, it was your crime, an artifice of hell ; 
 your crime was inexpiable. You should have 
 remained forever, bound and devoured, 
 you, the origin of the ills that afflict me. I 
 lacked compassion, it is true; but you, who 
 gave me life, perverse divinity, were the 
 cause of all. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 Approaching death confuses your reason. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 Yes, it is you; you have the Olympic fore 
 head, strong and beautiful Titan; it is you 
 indeed . . . Are these your chains? I see 
 upon them no trace of your tears. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 I wept them for your humankind. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 And humanity wept far more because of 
 your crime. 
 
LIFE 97 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 Hear me, last of men, last of ingrates! 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 What need have I of your words? I de 
 sire your groans, perverse divinity. Here are 
 the chains. See how I raise them; listen to 
 the clank of the iron . . . Who unbound you 
 just now? 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 Hercules. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 Hercules . . . See whether he will repeat his 
 service now that you are to be bound anew. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 You are raving 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 The sky gave you your first punishment, 
 now earth will give you the second and the 
 last. Not even Hercules will ever be able 
 to break these fetters. See how I brandish 
 them in the air, like feathers ! for I represent 
 the power of millennial despairs. All hu 
 manity is concentrated within me. Before I 
 sink into the abyss, I will write upon this 
 stone the epitaph of a world. I will summon 
 
98 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 the eagle, and it will come ; I will tell it that 
 the last man, on departing from life, leaves 
 him a god as a gift. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 Poor, ignorant wretch, who rejects a 
 throne! No, you cannot reject it. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 Now it is you who are raving. Kneel, and 
 let me manacle your arms. So, 'tis well you 
 will resist no more. Bend this way; now 
 your legs . . . 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 Have done, have done. It is the passions 
 of earth turning upon me ; but I, who am not 
 a human being, do not know ingratitude. You 
 will not be spared a jot of your destiny; it 
 will be fulfilled to the letter. You yourself 
 will be the new Hercules. I, who announced 
 the glory of the other, now proclaim yours; 
 and you will be no less generous than he. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 Are you mad? 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 The truth unknown to man is the madness 
 of him who proclaims it. Proceed, and have 
 done, 
 
LIFE 99 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 Glory pays nothing, and dies. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 This glory will never die. Have done; 
 have done ; show the sharp beak of the eagle 
 where it is to devour my entrails. But hear 
 me . . . No, hear nothing; you cannot under 
 stand me. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 Speak; speak. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 The ephemeral world cannot understand 
 the world eternal; but you will be the link 
 between the two. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 Tell me everything. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 I speak nothing; fetter these wrists well, 
 that I shall not flee, so that I shall be here 
 on your return. Tell you all? I have al 
 ready told you that a new race shall people 
 the earth, formed of the chosen spirits of the 
 extinct humanity; the multitude of others 
 will perish. A noble family, all-seeing and 
 
100 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 powerful, will be the perfect synthesis of the 
 divine and the human. The times will be 
 others, but between them and these a link is 
 necessary, and you shall be that link. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 I? 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 You yourself; you, the chosen one; you, 
 the King. Yes, Ahasverus. You shall be 
 King. The Wanderer will find rest. The 
 despised of men shall rule over mankind. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 Wily Titan, you are deceiving me ... King, 
 I? 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 You, King. Who else, then? The new 
 world needs to be bound by a tradition, and 
 none can speak of one to the other as you 
 can. Thus there will be no gap between the 
 two humanities. The perfect will proceed 
 from the imperfect, and your lips will tell 
 the new world its origin. You will relate to 
 the new humanity all the ancient good and 
 evil. And thus will you live anew like the 
 tree whose dead brances are lopped off, only 
 
LIFE 101 
 
 the flourishing ones being preserved; but 
 here growth will be eternal. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 Resplendent vision! I myself? 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 Your very self. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 These eyes . . . these hands ... a new and 
 better life . . . Glorious vision! Titan, it is 
 just. Just was the punishment; but equally 
 just is the glorious remission of my sin. Shall 
 I live? I myself? A new and better life? 
 No, you are jesting with me. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 Very well, then ; leave me. You will return 
 some day, when this vast heaven will be open 
 to let the spirits of the new life descend. You 
 will find me here at peace. Go. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 Shall I again greet the sun? 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 The selfsame sun that is about to set. 
 Friend sun, eye of time, nevermore shall your 
 eyelids close. Gaze upon it, if you can. 
 
102 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 I cannot. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 You will be able to, when the conditions of 
 life shall have changed. Then your retina 
 will gaze upon the sun without peril, for in 
 the man of the future will be concentrated all 
 that is best in nature, energizing or subtle, 
 scintillating or pure. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 Swear that you are not lying. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 You will see whether I lie. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 Speak, speak on ; tell me everything. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 The description of life is not worth the 
 sensation of life; you shall experience it deep 
 ly. The bosom of Abraham in your old 
 Scriptures is nothing but this final, perfect 
 world. There you will greet David and the 
 prophets. There will you tell to the astound 
 ed listeners, not only the great events of the 
 extinct world, but also the ills they will never 
 know: sickness, old age, grief, egotism, hypo- 
 
LIFE 103 
 
 crisy, abhorrent vanity, imbecility, and the 
 rest. The soul, like the earth, will possess 
 an incorruptible tunic. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 I shall gaze ever on the immense blue sky? 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 Behold how beautiful it is. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 As beautiful and serene as eternal justice. 
 Magnificent heaven, more beautiful than the 
 tents of Caesar. I shall behold you forever; 
 you will receive my thoughts, as before; you 
 will grant me clear days, and friendly 
 nights , . . 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 Dawn upon dawn. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 Ah, speak on, speak on. Tell me every 
 thing. Let me unbind these chains . . . 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 Loosen them, new Hercules, last man of 
 the old world, who shall be the first of the 
 new. Such is your destiny; neither you nor 
 I, nobody can alter it. You go farther than 
 your Moses. Prom the top of mount Nebo, 
 
104 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 at the point of death, he beheld the land of 
 Jericho, which was to belong to his descend 
 ants and the Lord said unto him: "Thou hast 
 seen with thine eyes, yet shalt not pass be 
 yond." You shall pass beyond, Ahasverus; 
 you shall dwell in Jericho. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 Place your hand upon my head; look well 
 at me ; fill me with the reality of your predic 
 tion; Jet me breathe a little of the new, full 
 life ... King, did you say? 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 The chosen king of a chosen people. 
 
 AHASVERUS 
 
 It is not too much in recompense for the 
 deep ignominy in which I have dwelt. Where 
 one life heaped mire, another life will place a 
 halo. Speak, speak on ... speak on ... 
 (He continues to dream. The two eagles draw 
 near.) 
 
 FIRST EAGLE 
 
 Ay, ay, ay! Alas for this last man; he is 
 dying, yet lie dreams of life. 
 
 SECOND EAGLE 
 
 Not so much that he hated it as that he 
 loved it so much. 
 
THE VENGEANCE OF FELIX 
 
THE VENGEANCE OF FELIX 
 
 BY JOSE DE MEDEIROS E ALBUQUERQUE (1867 ) 
 Member of the Brazilian Academy of Letters 
 
 OLD Felix had followed his trade of dig 
 ger in all the quarries that Rio de 
 Janeiro possessed. He was a sort of 
 Hercules with huge limbs, but otherwise stu 
 pid as a post. His companions had nick 
 named him Hardhead because of his obstin 
 ate character. Once an idea had penetrated 
 his skull it would stick there like a gimlet 
 and the devil himself couldn't pull it out. Be 
 cause of this trait there arose quarrels, alter 
 cations on points of the smallest significance, 
 which the man's acquaintances would pur 
 posely bring up, knowing his evil humor. 
 But Felix, despite his vigorous and sanguine 
 constitution, was by no means quick to an 
 ger, nor immediately responsive to injury; on 
 the contrary he was exceedingly patient in 
 his vindictiveness. For the longest time he 
 would ruminate upon his vengeance, most 
 
 107 
 
108 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 astutely, and he would carry it out at the 
 moment when he believed himself perfectly 
 secure. Oh! His ruses were not of very 
 great finesse and required very little talent; 
 but by dint of considering and reconsidering 
 the case, by dint of waiting patiently for the 
 propitious opportunity to present itself, he 
 finally would play some evil trick upon his 
 comrades. So that nobody liked him. 
 
 Felix had married, but his wife did not long 
 survive. Just long enough to leave him a son 
 and a daughter, who grew up knowing lit 
 tle restraint, chumming around with all the 
 good-for-nothings of the vicinity, plaguing 
 all the neighbors, who on their part, were 
 not slow to punish the rascals. Thus several 
 years went by. The son became a notorious 
 character, the daughter an impudent, cynical 
 little runabout who, on certain occasions, 
 would fill their rickety abode with her chat 
 ter about affairs concerning the "man" of so- 
 and-so or such-and-such. And thus things 
 were going when the old man took it into 
 his head to fall ill. An excruciating rheu 
 matism attacked both his legs, rendering him 
 incapable of moving about, and confining 
 him to an old, lame armchair that was 
 balanced by a complicated arrangement of 
 old boxes that could never be got to remain 
 
THE VENGEANCE OF FELIX 109 
 
 steady. The illness became chronic. The 
 daughter helped out the finances of the 
 house with her earnings as laundry-woman 
 . . . and perhaps by earnings of a different 
 nature. Anyway, they got along. The old 
 fellow, willy-nilly, spent his days invariably 
 riveted to his armchair, groaning with pain 
 at the least movement, swearing, fretting 
 and fuming, despairing of life. And, since 
 his daughter simply refused from the very 
 beginning to let him have even a drop of 
 brandy, he was perforce cured of his vice. 
 
 Just about this time there happened to 
 them the worst of all possible adventures. 
 The son, whom the father had not seen for 
 several weeks, one fine day attacked a peace 
 ful citizen and, with a terrible knife thrust in 
 the stomach, despatched him to a better 
 world; as to which event circumstances 
 seemed so contrary that the son allowed 
 himself to be arrested. 
 
 The old man was in the habit of reading 
 his gazette religiously, from the first line to 
 the last; thus he learned the news. And it 
 was through the same newspaper that he fol 
 lowed the trial and learned of his son's con 
 viction. This made him furious, not so 
 much because of the sentence as because of 
 a special circumstance. The policeman who 
 
110 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 had arrested his son was just think of 
 it! Bernardo, yes, Bernardo, his own 
 neighbor the same chap who would greet 
 him daily with the ironic words: "How are 
 things, Felix old boy? And when will you 
 be ready for a waltz?" 
 
 Even on the day of imprisonment and dur 
 ing those that followed BernaVdo had per 
 mitted himself these witty remarks. 
 
 Bernardo was a cobra of Bahai, a preten 
 tious mulatto whose enormous head of hair, 
 carefully parted in the middle into two flour 
 ishing masses, was kept so only through the 
 services of odorous pomade that cost four 
 sous a pot. He had been, in his day, a dis 
 honest political henchman, well-known for 
 his exploits; then, supported by the liberal 
 leader whose election he had worked for, he 
 escaped prison and entered the police service. 
 At that time police officers were called 
 "bats", a sobriquet that troubled Bernar 
 do very little. And it had been he what 
 anger flashed in old Felix's eyes as he 
 thought of it! he, whose past activities 
 would well bear examination, he who had 
 arrested Felix's son! . . . 
 
 From that moment one preoccupation 
 alone filled Felix's hours vengeance! This 
 hatred dominated his existence and became 
 
THE VENGEANCE OF FELIX 111 
 
 the only power that could vanquish the ever 
 growing misery of his broken-down body. 
 The mere thought that he could not grow 
 well, while the cobra would daily continue 
 to live in insolent impunity, was enough to 
 give him convulsions of rage; he would foam 
 at the mouth, gnash his teeth and, in that 
 obtuse brain of his, concoct scheme upon 
 scheme of vengeance, almost all of them im 
 practicable, for he was chained to the spot in 
 stupid impotence. 
 
 At times he would wish to call Bernardo 
 and with thunderous violence pour torrents 
 of insult upon his head. But what end 
 would that serve? Felix's treacherous, 
 cowardous nature counselled him to have 
 prudence. So, on the first days after the 
 arrest, when the mulatto would go by, the 
 old man feigned slumber. Then, in the con 
 tinuing uncertainty as to what method of 
 vengeance to pursue, and in order not to let 
 his hatred betray itself, he spoke to the 
 policeman as if nothing had happened. 
 Nevertheless there was one thing that puz 
 zled him greatly: his daughter had said noth 
 ing to him about the entire affair. Did she 
 know nothing about it? It was almost im 
 possible that the mulatto, with his chatter 
 box habits, had not spoken of the matter. 
 
112 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 Had his daughter feared to shock him with 
 the news? This was all the less probable 
 since she had never had any particular love 
 for him. Scarcely did a day pass that she 
 did not call him a "good-for-nothing," "a 
 lazy lout," and other similar tendernesses. So 
 he breathed not a word, and continued to 
 ruminate upon his vengeance. 
 
 Months rolled on. Far from getting bet 
 ter the illness increased. As soon as the 
 old fellow tried to move, horrible pains seized 
 him at every joint. His daughter maltreated 
 him, and at the height of his attacks she 
 would reply to his complaints that he'd do 
 better if he left the house, and she even 
 threatened to send him to the hospital. It 
 was now June. The weather was one long 
 succession of heavy rains; the invalid suf 
 fered atrociously from the cold and the damp, 
 and his daughter, disgruntled at the bad 
 weather, which interfered with her washing, 
 lived in unbroken sulkiness. She treated him 
 worse than a dog, and it was truly with the 
 patience of a dog that he endured everything, ' 
 so much did he fear being sent away. A 
 plan of vengeance had arisen in his brain, 
 and slowly, during the months, ever since he 
 had learned that his case was incurable, his 
 project had absorbed his entire mental activ- 
 
THE VENGEANCE OP FELIX 113 
 
 ity, indeed, his whole existence. He 
 breathed only for his plan, for the sure, pro 
 pitious opportunity. 
 
 At last it came, and a terrible day it was. 
 At dusk his daughter had left, closing the 
 door, as was her habit, and had not returned 
 at night. The old man was parched with 
 thirst and his physical torture had doubled. 
 He resolved upon quick action. 
 
 In the morning, it might have been about 
 seven o'clock his daughter returned, or 
 rather, rolled into the room, and with her, 
 pell-mell came "Jane", Bernardo's "friend". 
 Jane was roundly berating his daughter. 
 "You rotten thing!" she cried. "I'll show 
 you! Trying to take away somebody else's 
 man." And the two women came to blows, 
 rousing the entire neighborhood. They 
 tried at last to separate the combatants, but 
 it would have been easier to break them to 
 bits, so fiercely did they struggle against 
 each other. There was a whistle; the police 
 arrived, and the women were taken to the 
 lock-up. All this as quick as a flash. 
 
 The old man had not had time to utter a 
 word. But an extreme rage, blind, an anger 
 such as only savage beasts can know, over 
 powered him. What! His daughter, the 
 
114 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 mistress of Bernardo! This was the last 
 straw! 
 
 Towards noon the mulatto came back. He 
 had spent the night away from home, under 
 the pretext of a special patrol; he returned, 
 ignorant of the morning's events. He came 
 in smiling, in that measured walk of his, 
 waddling along. He approached Felix and 
 asked him the classic question: "Now then, 
 how goes it?" 
 
 Felix did not reply and merely made a sign 
 with his hand. The policeman entered. 
 When he had come near, Felix said to him 
 in a low voice that he had something very 
 serious to tell him. But first of all he insist 
 ed that Bernardo go and bring his large 
 knife. 
 
 "Why that, Felix? What do you want to 
 do with a knife?" asked the other. 
 
 The old man smiled mysteriously. "Quick, 
 my boy, I'll tell you afterwards, and you'll 
 see that my story will be worth the trouble." 
 
 "All right, I'll get it," replied the officer. 
 And a minute later he was back with the 
 knife, which he gave to the invalid. 
 
 "Now," continued the latter, "go and close 
 the door, so that nobody will hear. Close it 
 well, and turn the key." 
 
 Bernardo felt some mistrust at all this 
 
THE VENGEANCE OF FELIX 115 
 
 mystery, but knowing for certain that the 
 helpless old man could do him no harm, he 
 obeyed, curiously waiting to learn what the 
 other was up to. 
 
 "So, you want to tell me now? Not yet! 
 Here, first put this watch in your pocket." 
 And the old man drew from his pocket an 
 ancient nickel watch which he gave to the 
 cobra. 
 
 "What am I to do with this, Felix?" asked 
 the mulatto. 
 
 "Keep it, I tell you," was the reply. 
 
 "The old duffer is crazy for sure," thought 
 Bernardo, nevertheless doing as he was told. 
 Then, seeing in what manner the invalid had 
 grasped the knife he discreetly withdrew a 
 few paces. 
 
 Well, almost immediately Felix made a 
 sudden movement that caused his pain to in 
 crease anew, and he began to groan, to utter 
 most terrible cries, almost shrieks. 
 
 "I am dying! I am dying!" 
 
 Bernardo had never heard such awful 
 groaning; his mistrust grew, and, seeing that 
 the old man still clutched the knife, he 
 thought the invalid would kill him if he 
 should attempt to approach. He therefore 
 again stepped back a few paces and awaited 
 developments, persuaded that he had a luna- 
 
116 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 tic in front of him. The groaning became 
 louder and louder, so that it was easily to be 
 heard outside. Finally, the cabra, tired of 
 waiting, said, 'Til be back right away, Felix." 
 And he was about to leave. 
 
 Brusquely, the old man uncovered his own 
 breast, and with a rapid movement, right 
 over the heart, he thrust in the blade with all 
 his might, up to the hilt. Not a drop of 
 blood spurted out, the thick blade obstructing 
 the wound. His face convulsed with an ex 
 pression of excruciating torment; his hang 
 ing arms grew rigid. 
 
 The officer rushed to the door, opened it, 
 called for help and returned to pull the knife 
 from the wound, and to see whether it was 
 yet possible to save the unfortunate man. 
 Men and women, wildly excited, ran up to 
 the house crying loudly, and, seeing this man 
 with a long knife whence the blood was drip 
 ping, seeing also the pierced breast of old 
 Felix, the whole populace rushed upon Ber 
 nardo, disarmed him, crying "Kill him! Kill 
 him!" Bernardo was punched and kicked 
 and cudgelled from one infuriated person to 
 the other in the crowd, and led to the police- 
 station by a multitude which every moment 
 waxed greater and more threatening. 
 
 Several months later the trial came to an 
 
THE VENGEANCE OF FELIX 117 
 
 end. Bernardo was sentenced to hard labor 
 for life. Nobody would believe his story. 
 The proofs were overwhelming. Had he not 
 been caught red-handed? The presence of 
 the nickel- watch in his pocket indicated suf 
 ficiently that the motive of the crime was 
 robbery. The vengeance of old Felix had 
 been well calculated: the result was there. 
 The old man had conquered. 
 
THE PIGEONS 
 
THE PIGEONS 
 
 BY COELHO NETTO 
 Member Brazilian Academy of Letters 
 
 When the pigeons leave, misfortune follows. 
 Indian superstition. 
 
 WHEN Joanna appeared at the door 
 yawning, fatigued after the long 
 sleepless night spent at her son's 
 bedside, Triburcio, on the terrace, leaning 
 against his spade, was watching the pigeon- 
 house closely. 
 
 The sun was already setting and gilded the 
 moist leaves. At the edge of the ravine, tur 
 tie-doves and starlings were circling in the 
 air, making a joyous noise above the high 
 branches of the neighboring trees. 
 
 The caboclo 1 Indian did not remove his 
 eyes from the pigeon-house. The wrinkles 
 on his forehead bore witness to an inner 
 struggle , grave thoughts which were 
 
 i Caboclo signifies copper-colored. Indigenous 
 tribes of Brazil are so called from the color of their 
 skin. 
 
 121 
 
122 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 clouding his spirit. A pigeon took to flight, 
 then another, and still another; he turned his 
 head, following them with his gaze until they 
 were out of sight, and then returned to his 
 melancholy contemplation. 
 
 The birds came and went, entered the 
 pigeon-house and left in agitated manner, 
 cooing loudly; they circled above the dwel- 
 ing, sought the trees, alighted on the thatch 
 of the cabin, descended to earth in spiral 
 flight. 
 
 Some seemed to be getting their bearings, 
 to seek a route: they gazed across the clear 
 stretches of space and penetrated to the dis 
 tant horizons. Others would fly off, describ 
 ing vast circles, and would return to the 
 pigeon-house. Then all would come to 
 gether as if for a discussion, to plan their de 
 parture. 
 
 Some, u decided, opened their wings as if 
 about to fly away, but soon would close them 
 again. Still others would dart off, only to 
 come back aimlessly, and the noise increased 
 to a hubbub of hurried leaving. 
 
 The Indian gazed fixedly. Well he knew 
 that the life of his little son was at stake, 
 and depended upon the decision of the birds. 
 "When the pigeons leave, misfortune quickly 
 follows." 
 
THE PIGEONS 123 
 
 Joanna noticed Ms preoccupation. "What 
 is the matter?" she asked. 
 
 The cabodo scratched his head and made 
 no reply. The woman insisted. "What is 
 the trouble, Tiburcio?" 
 
 "The pigeons have taken a whim into their 
 heads, Joanna." 
 
 "And you are lost in the contemplation of 
 it? I have not cared to speak, but I know 
 well the meaning of what I see." 
 
 The cabodo slung the spade across his 
 shoulder and walked slowly up the road that 
 led to the plantation, through the wet hay 
 which exhaled a piquant odor. 
 
 Some hens were clucking, hidden in the 
 high grass, and a little ribbon of water which 
 flowed gently along sparkled here and there 
 through the openings in the brushwood. 
 
 Tiburcio, head bowed, spade on his shoul 
 der, could not shake off the deep impression 
 that had been made upon him by the sudden 
 migration of the birds. 
 
 It was the fatal sign. 
 
 To be sure, he had heard the owl's screech 
 for many and many a night; but he had seen 
 no cause for fear in this: everything was 
 going along nicely; their little son was in 
 good health and they, too, knew no illness. 
 But now the warning of the evil omen was 
 
124 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 confirmed. The pigeons which he had him 
 self brought up were flying away. They were 
 leaving, thus forecasting the arrival of death. 
 
 He turned back; he raised his eyes. There 
 were the birds high above, still circling about, 
 and Joanna was at the threshold of the 
 cabin, leaning against the jamb, her arms 
 crossed, her head hanging. The poor woman 
 was surely weeping. 
 
 Within him he felt a mute explosion of 
 hatred and revolt against the ungrateful 
 birds. Never had he had the courage to kill 
 a single one of them. He lived only for the 
 purpose of keeping the pigeon-house in or 
 der, thinking only of making it larger so 
 that it might accommodate more pairs. And 
 the little child, was it not he who crushed 
 the millet for the fledglings, who climbed the 
 mango-tree, going from branch to branch to 
 see whether there wasn't some crack through 
 which the rain came in? Who knows? Per 
 haps the pigeons were leaving their dwelling 
 because they no longer saw him? 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and continued 
 on his way. As he crossed the dam his heart 
 palpitated wildly. He stopped. The water, 
 held back in its course, threw back a motion 
 less reflection of him. But although he 
 looked down upon it he saw not his image; 
 
THE PIGEONS 125 
 
 his thoughts were entirely with the little 
 child who, burning with fever, was in de 
 lirium. 
 
 He chose a side path. The millet stems 
 were so high that he disappeared within them 
 with a crumpling of dry leaves. The soft 
 ant-hills which it was his daily custom to 
 level off failed to attract his attention. He 
 walked straight on. Parrots flew by, chat 
 tering, with their green wings shining in the 
 sun, and huge grasshoppers were jumping in 
 the leaves. 
 
 He came upon a straw hut, here the child 
 was wont to play with its toys; there was 
 even now a boot of wild sugar-cane. But al 
 ready the grass was beginning to invade the 
 abandoned shelter. . . . For a month the little 
 child had not visited the place. When the 
 father came to the field of manioc he sat 
 down, bent almost in two. The spade 
 weighed upon his shoulders like a burden. 
 The strength had oozed out of his legs. His 
 whole body was broken with fatigue, as if at 
 the end of a long journey. He sat down upon 
 a hillock and began to trace lines upon the 
 earth, with a distraught air. 
 
 At times it seemed as if he heard the echo 
 of his wife's voice. He would raise his head 
 and strain his ears to catch the sound. But 
 
126 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 only the rustling of the leaves stirred by the 
 breeze and the chirping of the insects in the 
 sun came to him. All earth seemed to per 
 spire. A diaphanous vapor rose tremblingly 
 from the hot soil; the leaves hung languidly, 
 and through the intense blueness of the sky 
 passed some urubus* in search of distant lodg 
 ings. 
 
 Suddenly a pigeon winged through the air, 
 then another, and still another. They were 
 leaving . . . they were leaving! ... A beating 
 of wings, more on the way. They would 
 never return, never! They were fleeing in 
 horror, feeling the approach of death. 
 
 For a long time he gazed about him, but 
 could see only the rich verdure waving to 
 the wind in the warm transparency of the 
 atmosphere. He should have taken his 
 child to town as soon as the illness had ap 
 peared. But who could have foretold this? 
 He raised his eyes to heaven and they lin 
 gered upon the luminous azure; then came 
 another pigeon. He shook his head and, 
 striking his fist against his thigh, slung 
 his spade back upon his shoulder and turned 
 in the direction of his house. 
 
 When Joanna saw him on the terrace she 
 appeared to divine his thoughts. 
 
 *Urubu: the black vulture of South America. 
 
THE PIGEONS 127 
 
 "It is well you returned, my dear! All alone 
 here I am at a loss as to what to do." 
 
 He looked at the pigeon-house, saw that 
 it was deserted, and ominously silent. As 
 evening fell Tiburcio sat down upon the 
 threshold of the cabin and began to smoke, 
 waiting for the pigeons. The grasshoppers 
 were shrillling; all the birds who had their 
 nests in the tree nearby retired and, as it 
 was still light, they lingered in the branches 
 to trill their good-night cadences. 
 
 The sky grew pale. The landscape was 
 veiled in a light mist. The evening breeze 
 scattered the gentle odor of lilies. Not very 
 far off a dog barked now and then. At times a 
 grave lowing saddened the silence. Tiburcio 
 did not remove his eyes from the pigeon- 
 house, unless it was to pierce the shadows 
 and try to discover in the distance one of the 
 birds. Perhaps some of them would return. 
 
 Where could they find a better shelter? 
 The forest was full of dangers and domestic 
 pigeons could scarcely live in the brushwood. 
 What other pigeon-roost could have attract 
 ed them? If he had but followed the line of 
 their flight . . . Some had taken the direction 
 of the fields, others had flown towards the 
 mountains, and there was no sign of any re 
 turning. 
 
128 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 It was now quite dark. Joanna lighted a 
 candle. Already the frogs were croaking in 
 the marshes. A star shone in the sky. Ti- 
 burcio fixed his gaze upon it and began to 
 pray in low tones. The silence was scarcely 
 broken by the murmuring of the water as It 
 ran and broke over the stones in the ravine 
 not far away, just behind the cabin. 
 
 Tiburcio sighed, arose, leaned against the 
 jamb and lacked courage to go inside. Joanna 
 came near the door. 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 "The same thing," he replied. 
 
 He stepped down, called her, and together 
 they went towards the terrace. Near the 
 mango-tree, directly under the pigeon-house, 
 they stopped, 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 he pointed 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. Sudden 
 ly, in a firm voice, he announced, "I am going 
 to her." 
 
 "Now?" 
 
THE PIGEONS 129 
 
 "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 self how far gone 
 he is! He is no longer interested in any 
 thing. I move about, I speak, I go here and 
 there, I come back again into the room, 
 but it is all nothing to him. Ah! God in 
 heaven!" 
 
 Her voice died out. Suddenly she melted 
 into tears. Tiburcio withdrew and com 
 menced to pace slowly up and down the ter 
 race. The white moon was rising. The 
 fields became less obscure and, in the light, 
 the shadows of the trees, very black, 
 stretched across the ground. 
 
 "Patience, dear woman, patience!" 
 
 The strident crickets were chirping. The 
 caboclo murmured, "Yes, I know ..." 
 
 Of a sudden Joanna shuddered. Quivering 
 she turned towards the cabin, from whose 
 wide door shone a ray of livid light; for a 
 moment her astonished gaze lingered and 
 then, with a bound she was gone. 
 
 Tiburcio, motionless, without understand 
 ing what his wife had just done, quietly 
 
130 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 awaited her return, when a piercing cry rang 
 out. The caboclo rushed to the cabin and 
 made for the room where the candle was 
 burning. The woman, on her knees before 
 the little bed, leaning over the child, was sob 
 bing 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 trembling hands felt a 
 little body that was still aflame. She touched 
 the sunken chest, where the ribs showed 
 through like laths, and the hollow abdomen. 
 "Listen to his heart, Tiburcio!" 
 He could only reply, "It is all over!" 
 The mother arose with a leap, disfigured, 
 her hair dishevelled, her eyes sparkling. She 
 tried to speak, stretched her hands out to her 
 husband, but fell limp upon a basket and 
 and, bowed down, bathed in tears, she began 
 to repeat the name of her son with an infinite 
 tenderness that was rent by sobs. 
 
 "My Luiz! My little Luiz! But a moment 
 ago living, oh blessed Virgin!" 
 
 Tiburcio turned away and in the room, be 
 fore the table, he stopped, his eyes wander 
 ing, his lips trembling, the tears rolling in big 
 
THE PIGEONS 131 
 
 drops down his bony face. Joanna left the 
 chamber, wavering as if drunk, and seeing 
 him, threw herself into his arms ; he held her 
 without uttering a word, and they stood thus 
 in embrace for a long time, in the dark, nar 
 row room where the crickets were chirping. 
 
 Joanna went back to the chamber. Ti- 
 burcio remained leaning against the table, 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 
 was growing brighter beneath the moon. 
 Suddenly it seemed to him that he heard the 
 cooing of pigeons. Above, the stars were 
 shining, the tree tops glittered in the moon 
 light. Could it be an illusion? 
 
 Motionless, he concentrated his attention. 
 The cooing continued. He arose impetuous 
 ly, walked straight to the pigeon-roost and 
 leaned against the trunk of the mango-tree. 
 
 "Could it be the pigeons who were return 
 ing after the passing of death?" he began to 
 mutter in fury, replying to his thoughts. 
 "Now it's too late! A curse upon them!" 
 
 A beating of wings, a tender cooing, and 
 little cries came from the pigeon-house. 
 
132 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 There was no doubt now. He went forward 
 and, from the middle of the terrace watched 
 the pigeon-house, walking resolutely towards 
 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 mutter 
 ing. He then turned back to the terrace 
 and, having reached the mango-tree, rolled 
 up 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 the birds grew 
 still. Tiburcio redoubled his efforts. A crack 
 now weakened the structure, but still it re 
 sisted. He leaned the axe against the trunk 
 and, grasping the branches, raised himself 
 to the top of the tree. Prom there he sup 
 ported himself between two boughs and gave 
 the large box a furious kick. The pigeon- 
 roost fell shattered to the ground. 
 
 Two pigeons flew off in great fright, dazed. 
 Uncertain of their direction in the clearness 
 of the night, they lit upon the roof of the 
 hut. 
 
 The caboclo slid down lightly along the 
 trunk and saw two little bodies who were 
 whining, staggering, dragging themselves 
 along. They were two little pigeons. He 
 
THE PIGEONS 133 
 
 beixt over them, took them in his hands and 
 began to examine them. They were ugly, 
 still without wings, having only a thin down 
 to cover the muscles of their soft, wrinkled 
 bodies. The Indian turned them over this 
 way and that in his shrivelled hands. He 
 felt their fragile bones, and the little things 
 struggled to fly away, moving the stumps of 
 their wings; they stretched out their necks 
 and whined. 
 
 Gnashing his teeth, Tiburcio squeezed 
 the fledglings and crushed them. Their ten 
 der bones cracked like bits of wood. The 
 blood gushed forth and trickled, warm, 
 through the tightened fingers of the man. 
 
 Under the impulse of his fury he threw 
 them to the ground; they flattened out, soft 
 as rotten fruit. And the caboclo, growling to 
 himself, trampled upon them. The parent- 
 birds were cooing dolorously upon the 
 thatched roof, flying hither and thither. 
 
 Joanna, embracing her dead child, was still 
 sobbing when Tiburcio entered the chamber. 
 He stopped before the little bed, and looked 
 down. Of a sudden the woman shook, arose 
 with a start, seized her husband's arm, her 
 eyes distended and her mouth wide open, her 
 head bending over as if to hear voices, far 
 away sounds. 
 
134 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 "What is it, Joanna? What is the matter 
 with you?" 
 
 In terror she stammered reply. "The 
 pigeons, dear husband. Don't you hear 
 them?" 
 
 It was their sad cooing that came from 
 the roof of the house. "They are returning! 
 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 an 
 swered. "They are sobbing, like us. It's a 
 pair that remained behind because of the lit 
 tle ones. I dashed 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 pointed to the ruined 
 pigeon-house. Then he grasped the crushed 
 bodies of the little birds. "Look!" 
 
 Without breathing a word Joanna looked 
 on. In her horror she had stopped weeping. 
 She gazed upon her husband, whose burning 
 eyes flashed fire. He threw the first little 
 pigeon upon the roof bellowing, " 'T is well!" 
 
 He threw the second. 
 
THE PIGEONS 135 
 
 " '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 in heaven!" 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 re 
 turned, were cooing dolorously, 
 
AUNT ZEZE'S TEARS 
 
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 youngest sister, who 
 had married very early and now pos 
 sessed five children: two young ladies of 
 marriageable age, a third still in short 
 dresses, and two little boys. 
 
 Maria- Jose, whose nickname was Zeze, 
 had never been beautiful or winning. Upon 
 her father's death it was thought best that 
 she should go to live with her sister Engra- 
 cigna's family. Here she led a montonous 
 existence, helping to bring up her nephews 
 and nieces, who were born in that young 
 and happy household with a regularity that 
 brooked small intervals between the births. 
 
 A long, pointed nose disfigured her face, 
 and her lips, extremely thin, looked like a 
 pale crack. Her thoughtful gaze alone pos 
 sessed a certain melancholy attractiveness. 
 139 
 
140 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 But even here, her eyes, protruding too far 
 for the harmony of the lines upon her face 
 seemed always to be red, and her brows nar 
 row and sparse. 
 
 Of late, an intricate network of wrinkles 
 as fine as hairs, had formed at the cor 
 ner of her eyes. Prom her nose, likewise, 
 two furrows ran along the transparent deli 
 cacy of her skin and reached either side of 
 her mouth. When she smiled, these wrin 
 kles would cover her countenance with a 
 mask of premature age, and threatened soon 
 to disfigure her entirely. And yet, from habit, 
 and through passive obedience to routine, 
 Maria-Jose continued to dress like a young 
 girl of eighteen, in brightly colored gowns, 
 thin waists and white hats that ill became her 
 frail and oldish face. 
 
 She would remain for a long time in pain 
 ful indecision when it was a matter of pick 
 ing out some piece of goods that was of too 
 bright a red or blue, as if instinctively she 
 understood the disharmony of these hues 
 with her age, whose rapid oncoming they 
 moreover placed in all the more noticeable 
 contrast. And at such times Engracigna 
 and her daughters would say to her with a 
 vehemence whose effect they little guessed, 
 "Why, Z<ze"! Buy something and be done 
 
AUNT ZEZE'S TEARS 141 
 
 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-Jose as she real 
 ly was. Living with her day by day 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 of a 
 frivolous and indifferent sort, Zze had 
 grown to be the type, very vague, to be sure, 
 but the eternal type of young girl of mar- 
 riagable years who always should be well 
 dressed and smiling. 
 
 When she would be out walking with her 
 nieces, of sixteen and seventeen years, who 
 wore the same clothes as she herself did, but 
 whose graceful and lively charm became 
 their gay colors of youth so well, Zeze's in 
 telligence saw only too plainly the contrast 
 between her and them; she would hold aloof 
 from the laughing set, morose, wounded, as 
 if oppressed by an unspeakable shame. 
 
 Ah! Who can depict the secret chagrin of 
 an old maid who sees pass by in useless 
 monotony her dark, loveless, despairing 
 days, without hope even of some event of 
 personal interest, while about her moves the 
 busy whirl of happier creatures whose life 
 has but one goal, who feel emotions and ten- 
 
142 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 dernesses, and who look upon her simply as 
 an obscure accessory in the household's af 
 fairs! They all loved her, of course, but not 
 one of them suspected that she, too, could 
 cherish those aspirations that are common 
 to all human beings. 
 
 Her self-denial seemed to be a most na 
 tural thing; indeed, they hardly considered 
 her in the light of a living person; she was no 
 longer of any consequence. 
 
 This was an attitude that satisfied the gen 
 eral egotism of the family, and to which they 
 all had grown accustomed, never suspecting 
 the grievous aspect of her sacrifice which 
 was hidden by a sentiment of proud dignity. 
 
 So, when they would go to the theatre, 
 and the box held only five Engracigna, her 
 husband, Pabio, and the three young ladies, 
 Maria-Jose knew beforehand that her sis 
 ter, snugly wrapped in her opera-cloak, 
 would come to her and say gently, in that 
 purring voice of hers: "You'll stay at home 
 with the children tonight, won't you, Zeze? 
 Little Paul isn't very well, and I wouldn't 
 think of leaving him with anybody else ..." 
 
 And she would remain behind, without 
 betraying the revolt within her which, upon 
 each occasion of these evidences of selfish- 
 
AUNT ZEZE'S TEARS 143 
 
 ness, would make the anemic blood in her 
 veins tremble with agitation. 
 
 Alone in the dining-room she would ply 
 her needle mechanically, while her nephews 
 would amuse themselves with the toys scat 
 tered upon the table, colored pictures and 
 lead soldiers. Every other moment they 
 would call her. 
 
 "Aunt Zeze, 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 to sleep in 
 their little twin beds, she would rest her el 
 bows upon the window-sill of her gloomy 
 old-maid's room, and placing both hands be 
 neath her sharp chin, her gaze directed to 
 wards heaven, she would lose herself in con 
 templation of the stars that shone in the lim 
 pid sky, less lonely, surely, than she upon 
 earth. In vain did her eyes seek in the eyes 
 of another that expression of sympathy and 
 tenderness which alone would console her . . 
 The truth is that Maria-Jose was suffering 
 from the disappointment of unrequited pas 
 sion. She had fallen in love with Monjardin, 
 a poet and great friend of her brother-in- 
 law, Fabio. Monjardin came to the house 
 every Sunday. 
 
 Older than she, almost forty, but having 
 
144 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 preserved all the attractiveness of youth,- 
 black moustache, a vigorous, yet graceful 
 figure, eyes still bright, charming and wide 
 awake, Monjardin, without knowing it, had 
 conquered Zeze. 
 
 This had come about in a rather curious 
 manner. Finding the conversation of Pa- 
 bio's wife and daughters too commonplace, 
 Monjardin, when he would recite some of his 
 poems or tell some story connected with his 
 literary life, preferred to address Maria-Jose, 
 whom he saw to be of a serious and impres 
 sive nature. 
 
 "Let's have another poem, please, Mr. 
 Monjardin!" she would ask in supplicating 
 tone. "For instance, that one you call 'Re 
 grets.' You know?" 
 
 And then he would describe in his verse 
 the grief of a heart, disillusioned and broken 
 by the cruelties of fate, that evoked in vain 
 the remembrance of yesterday's lost loves, 
 vanished in the mists of eternal despair. 
 
 He recited these bitter griefs in a strong, 
 healthy man's voice, erect in the center of 
 the parlor, looking mechanically, distracted 
 ly at Maria-Jose with his dreamy eyes; the 
 concentrated effort of his memory brought 
 to his face an involuntary immobility which 
 
AUNT ZEZE'S TEARS 145 
 
 Maria-Jos6, most deliciously touched, drank 
 in. 
 
 The poet had announced that he had writ 
 ten a poem which he would recite at Zz6's 
 anniversary dinner. The date for this was 
 but a few days distant, and ever since the 
 poet's announcement the whole family had 
 taken to teasing the old maid, christening 
 her "the muse of inspiration," and asking her 
 when the wedding would take place . . . 
 
 She smiled ingenuously; at such times her 
 face would even take on an air of unusual 
 happiness; her features grew animated, less 
 wrinkled and more firm. 
 
 On the day of the celebration Maria-Jose 
 came out of her room radiant with hope. At 
 the belt of her white dress bloomed a rose; 
 a little blood, set pulsing by her agitated 
 heart, brought a feeble color to her marble 
 cheeks, from which now protruded her long 
 nose in a manner less displeasing than usual. 
 
 "See, mamma," remarked one of the 
 nieces, "doesn't Zeze look like a young girl 
 today?" 
 
 They dined amidst merry chatter. Seated 
 directly across from Monjardin, Maria- Jos6, 
 hiding her glances behind the fruit-bowls 
 that covered the table, looked at him furtively 
 without surfeit. Her poor heart beat as if 
 
146 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 it would burst, waiting in agonized suspense 
 for the poem in which the poet, without 
 doubt, was to declare his intimate feelings 
 for her. Monjardin had already pointed to 
 his pocket as a token that he had the verses 
 with him, and Zeze had trembled with grati 
 fication as she bashfully lowered her long 
 face. 
 
 Champagne sparkled in the glasses and 
 toasts were given. Several guests of dis 
 tinction spoke first, then followed the hosts 
 and their children, frolicsome little things. 
 Finally Monjardin arose and unfolded a 
 manuscript, asking permission to declaim the 
 verses which he had composed in honor of 
 Maria-Jose, the central figure of the occa 
 sion. The guests greeted his remarks with 
 noisy and enthusiastic approbation. 
 
 "Hear! Hear!" 
 
 Engracigna and her daughters leaned over 
 and cast malicious glances in the direction 
 of Maria-Jose, but she was paying no atten 
 tion to them. Her ears were buzzing; it 
 seemed that everything was turning round. 
 
 Monjardin, the center of all eyes, made 
 pompous preparation; he pulled down his 
 vest, arranged his sleeves and, in sonorous, 
 cadenced vocie, began to recite his alexan 
 drines, scanning the lines impeccably. 
 
AUNT ZEZE'S TEARS 147 
 
 His poem opened with a eulogy of the in 
 effable virtue, compounded of self-abnega 
 tion and chastity, that distinguished the an 
 gelic creature who, with her white tutelary 
 wings, watched over the happiness of his 
 dear friend's love nest. He then recalled 
 that the date of this day commemorated the 
 happy birth of a being of immaculate purity, 
 Maria-Jose, a veritable saint who had re 
 nounced all her own aspirations so that she 
 might consecrate herself entirely to the 
 duties of her sister's family; gentle figure of 
 the mother-guardian, who would soon be the 
 beloved grandmother sharing with her sister 
 the joys of younger households which would 
 soon be formed, offsprings of that home 
 which her devoted tenderness as aunt and 
 sister at present cultivated. As he came to a 
 close, the poet raised his cup of sparkling 
 wine and, in exalted voice, drank to the 
 health of Zeze amidst the loud huzzahs of 
 all present. 
 
 "Long live Aunt Zz6! Hurrah for Aunt 
 Zeze!" cried the children, glass in hand, 
 while the nieces laughed loudly, blushing to 
 the ears, for they had understood very well 
 the poet's reference to future "younger 
 households." 
 
 Fabio and his wife, their eyes somewhat 
 
148 BRAZILIAN TALES 
 
 brightened by the strong champagne, pro 
 posed in turn their toast to Zeze. 
 
 "Here's to Zez< and the eighteen happy 
 years we've lived together! ..." 
 
 Maria-Jose, as soon as she had seized the 
 significance of Monjardin's verses, had 
 grown deathly pale; stricken by sudden dis 
 illusionment, she felt a glacial chill over 
 whelm her body to the very marrow; she 
 feared that she would faint straightway and 
 provide a spectacle for the guests, who were 
 all drinking her health, their eyes fo cussed 
 upon her. A veil of tears spread before her 
 sight ... In vain she tried to repress them, 
 to force a smile of thanks upon her face. 
 The smile wrinkled into a dolorous grimace; 
 she succeeded only in convulsing her con 
 tracted visage with the sobs that she sought 
 to restrain. Overcome at last, humiliated, 
 powerless, she broke into tears, and this un 
 foreseen denouement put an end at once to 
 all the pleasure of the dinner. 
 
 "Zeze! Zeze! What ails you? ..." 
 
 Engracigna had rushed to her side in 
 alarm ; everyone rose, seeking the reason for 
 the outburst; they surrounded the poor crea 
 ture, whose head had sunk upon the table, 
 in the midst of the rose petals, the fruits and 
 
AUNT ZEZE'S TEARS 149 
 
 the glasses which were strewn in charming 
 confusion. 
 
 "What is the trouble? . . ." 
 
 A nervous attack, perhaps? . . . Confusion 
 produced in her by the touching poem? . . . 
 
 Finally they raised Maria-Josh's head and 
 bathed it in cool water; whereupon the face 
 of the poor old maid stood revealed in all the 
 ugliness that her spasms of convulsive weep 
 ing cast over it, with her large aquiline nose, 
 her protruding eyes and her livid lips . . . 
 
 And now Monjardin drew near. Delicate 
 ly raising the icy fingers of Maria-Jos6 he 
 lifted them to the edge of his perfumed mous 
 tache and placed upon them a grateful kiss; 
 then, turning to Engracigna's daughters he 
 said, with a solemn, self-complacent tone, 
 "Aunt ZSze^s tears are the most beautiful 
 homage that could be rendered to my poor 
 verses." 
 
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