The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas E-Book

Machado de Assis

• Herausgeber: Lebooks Editora
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 359

Beschreibung

Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis (1839 – 1908) was a writer considered by many critics, scholars, writers, and readers to be the greatest name in Brazilian literature. Machado de Assis left a very extensive body of work, the result of half a century of literary labor, which includes plays, poetry, prologues, critiques, speeches, more than two hundred short stories, and several novels. "The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas" (1881) is a first-person narrative considered Machado de Assis's masterpiece. The novel, extremely daring for its time, is framed as the memoirs of a character, Brás Cubas, who writes after his death. The dedication at the beginning of the book already anticipates the humor and fine irony present throughout: "To the worm that first gnawed at the cold flesh of my corpse, I dedicate with fond remembrance these posthumous memoirs."  

Leseprobe

Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis

THE POSTHUMOUS MEMOIRS OF BRÁS CUBAS

Original Title:

“Memórias póstumas de Brás Cubas”

Contents

INTRODUCTION

PROLOGUE TO THE THIRD EDITION

THE POSTHUMOUS MEMOIRS OF BRAS CUBAS

INTRODUCTION

J.M. Machado de Assis

1839-1908

Joaquín Maria Machado de Assis was born on June 21, 1839, in Morro do Livramento, one of the hills surrounding Rio de Janeiro, which is now a favela area extremely dangerous and unpleasant to walk through due to its paths of misery and violence.

His father, a mulatto descended from slaves, was a house painter. His mother, of Portuguese origin, was born on an island in the Azores. From these beginnings, critics have constructed a narrative in which this humble, dark-skinned boy managed to achieve a meteoric rise that elevated him, thanks to continuous struggles and enormous patience in the face of humiliations, to the highest peaks of Brazilian culture and society. Adding epilepsy as another defining characteristic, the image of the genius forging his own destiny is nearly perfect—the perfect self-made man. However, as Brazilian critic Antonio Candido points out, what should be emphasized is the ease with which he rose and earned the highest recognitions.

And he was not an exception: during the colonial empire, black and poor men not only received Portuguese titles of nobility but also held high positions in the colonial administration. According to Candido, Machado's life was a placid one: typographer, journalist, modest office worker, high-level civil servant, founder, and first president of the Brazilian Academy of Letters, and from the age of fifty, "the most important writer in the country, and the object of as much reverence and general admiration as no other Brazilian novelist or poet was in life, either before or after."

Machado de Assis’s literary career began in 1861, at the age of twenty-two, with the publication of an apparent translation and a dramatic fantasy. Earlier, at fifteen, he had presented himself at the literary gathering of bookseller and publisher Francisco de Paula Brito with a poem that no one believed he had written. From then on, he frequented Brazil’s most important literary figures and contributed to the cenacle’s magazine, the Marmota Fluminense. His work is generally divided into a first period from his early years to 1880, when the serialized publication of “The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas” began, marking the rise of Brazil’s greatest writer, the most important Latin American writer of the 19th century, and a world-class author who, as Susan Sontag argues, has not received the recognition he deserves because he was Brazilian and spent his entire life in Rio de Janeiro.

Machado de Assis left behind a vast body of work, the result of half a century of literary labor, including plays, poetry, prologues, critiques, speeches, more than two hundred short stories, and several novels. Among the short stories, over a dozen are considered some of the best ever written in Portuguese; and among the novels, three reach heights unknown to literature written in Spanish during the 19th century: “The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas” (1880), “Quincas Borba” (1891), and “Dom Casmurro,” regarded by some critics as his masterpiece. Machado de Assis's life was indeed tranquil. He was always surrounded by writers and people of good social and economic standing who supported him. Despite his family's opposition to his marriage to a young Portuguese woman, the sister of poet Francisco Xavier de Novais, the marriage proved successful, and his wife played a fundamental role in his life and work. He was known to be exceedingly formal, a friend of maintaining distances, conventional, and very private. It is said that the only thing he lacked in life was a child.

Although unanimously considered one of the greatest writers of the 19th century, Machado de Assis's work has not achieved the dissemination and recognition it deserves outside Brazil, particularly in Hispanic countries.

In “Genius,” one of his latest books, the prestigious American literary critic Harold Bloom selected what he calls his “mosaic of one hundred exemplary creative minds, one hundred genuine geniuses.” Among them is Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis, who appears alongside Leo Tolstoy, Herman Melville, Jane Austen, Anton Chekhov, Victor Hugo, Stendhal, Henry James, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Jane Austen, Gustave Flaubert, and José Maria Eça de Queiroz, among other 19th-century writers. Surely, very few would dispute the inclusion of the Brazilian writer in this select list. On the contrary, they would agree that the quality and originality of his work place him at the same level as these authors.

However, as Susan Sontag points out, it is astonishing that a writer of such magnitude still does not occupy the place he deserves. In his case, it is not a matter of being forgotten, as that would imply he once enjoyed a period of recognition and dissemination. Rather, it is a matter of his work being little known outside his country, despite the reasons being hard to explain. Sontag herself offers one: "Surely Machado would have been better known if he had not been Brazilian and spent his entire life in Rio de Janeiro; if he had been, say, Italian or Russian. Or even Portuguese." She finds it even more notable that he is not well recognized and read in the rest of Latin America, "as if it were still hard to digest the fact that the greatest author to emerge from it wrote in Portuguese instead of Spanish." Machado de Assis died on September 19, 1908.

Now, in the 21st century, where technology allows for faster and cheaper access to international works, Spanish-speaking readers have the opportunity to learn a little about this extraordinary Brazilian writer. This edition will present one of his most outstanding works: "The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas."

About the work

The novel "The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas" by the Brazilian Joaquim Machado de Assis (1839-1908) was published in 1880.

In this masterful narrative-humorous work, Brazil’s greatest writer achieved the creation of an essentially valuable atmosphere: with a lean and bookish plot, the memoirs from beyond the grave of a wealthy man unlucky in love—a classic epicurean type—merge the novel of manners with the novel of ideas, infusing them with magical nostalgic suggestions, subtly cerebral, reminiscent of France, Pirandello, and Kierkegaard.

The work unfolds through waves of impressions and memories, thoughts and fantasies, an agile ideal dance embroidered over a single motif played on one string, with extreme freedom and agility. The mind of the author, a mulatto of humble origins, a typographer by trade, later founder and perpetual president of the Brazilian Academy of Letters, appears illuminated somewhat tumultuously by so many illustrious and diverse influences, from Shakespeare to Victor Hugo, but ultimately ordered into a profound catharsis and refracted through the prism of a vivid intelligence.

Brás Cubas is Machado himself, narrating the myth of an entire life, a synthesis of his aspirations and highest spirituality. The tone and atmosphere of the novel, universally appreciable for the wisdom they achieve, are also as Brazilian as one could wish; the real and the ideal blend in sure creative harmony. It is the Brazil of the enlightened Emperor Dom Pedro II, who reigned from 1841 to 1889. A country that was soft and aristocratic, cosmopolitan and paganizing, hedonistic and cerebral; Brás Cubas’s love for three different women: the dancer Marcela; the rich and vain Virgilia; the passionate, illegitimate, and lame Eusebia, holds the value of both a fact and a symbol, emblematic of the bitter human decay to which man, however, must cling as an anchor of salvation in the great shipwreck of all other ambitions and illusions.

Cubas is akin to the characters of France, and with greater kindness but no less irony, he observes life rather than lives it, scrutinizing every detail to extract wisdom, even if he considers it useless. Love, Brás seems to tell us with his desolate lucidity, is the only hope for life before facing death and fearing the disappointment of an immortality possibly denied by a dark fate. The Memoirs span from birth to the grave, with a method similar to certain 19th-century novels still tied to the linear process of the historical novel and already fused with the psychological, like "War and Peace" and especially "The Confessions" by Nievo, with which it shares remarkable affinities in depicting childhood loves. Marcela and Virgilia immediately recall Natasha and Pisana. All the women in the book, except the "honorable go-between" Plácida, a well-crafted minor figure, are seen through the indulgent yet severe eyes of the philosopher who forgives but knows the flaws of the creatures he represents. Machado's humor reaches the sublime by reflecting precisely all human weaknesses, pitying them with a smile, sometimes with full compassion, sometimes with sharp skepticism, leading to the coldest pessimism.

Machado de Assis's prose has admirable clarity, penetrating like a clear, light air that continuously sustains and moves the narration. The characters of the diplomat, the freed slave, the beggar philosopher Quincas Borba (who gives his name to another novel by Machado), along with other figures and caricatures, are unforgettable for their truth and liveliness of contour, their psychological sharpness. The author reserves the sad truth, the essence of the whole story, for the end of the work; after having carried the narration with broad and sustained breath, after having poured his irony, both grotesque and elegant, over all aspects of life, and after ending the life of Cubas, in the final accumulation of memories, contemplating humanity in its futile attempts at perfection, clinging to all weaknesses, obstinately calling them or believing them good or continually desirable; faced with his own failure as a man of love who did not create a family, he finally exclaims, free of all judgment and respect towards his fellow men: "I come to a small benefit; I have not had children; I have not transmitted to anyone the legacy of our misery." A conclusion reminiscent of Schopenhauer and Leopardi, and in which, legitimately, rests the hand of the great creator, one of the most resonant voices in Portuguese-language literature.

PROLOGUE TO THE THIRD EDITION

The first edition of these Posthumous Memoirs of Eras Cubas came in sections in the Revista Brasileira during the 1880s. When they were put into book form later on I corrected the text in several places. Now that I have had to review it for the third edition, I have emended yet a few more things and eliminated two or three dozen lines. Revised in this way, this work which seems to have garnered some acceptance on the part of the public, is published once again.

Capistrano de Abreu, taking note of the publication of the book, asked “Is The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas a novel?” Macedo Soares in a letter that he wrote me around that time recalled fondly the Travels in My Land [ of Almeida Garrett], To the first the late Brás Cubas has already replied (as the reader has seen and will see in the prologue by him that opens the book) yes and no, that it was a novel for some and wasn’t for others. As for the second, this is how the decedent has explained it: “It’s a question of a scattered work where I, Brás Cubas, have adopted the free form of a Sterne or a Xavier de Maistre. I’m not sure, but I may have put a few fretful touches of pessimism into it.” All those people traveled: Xavier de Maistre around his room, Garrett in his land, Sterne in other people’s lands. It might be said of Brás Cubas that he traveled around life.

What makes my Brás Cubas a singular author is what he calls “a few fretful touches of pessimism.” There is in the soul of this book, for all of its merry appearance, a harsh and bitter feeling that is a far piece from its models. It’s a goblet that may carry a similar design but contains a different wine. I shall say no more so as not to get into any criticism of a dead man who painted himself and others according to what seemed best and most authentic to him.

 — Machado de Assis

THE POSTHUMOUS MEMOIRS OF BRAS CUBAS

To the Worm Who

Gnawed the Cold Flesh of My Corpse I Dedicate

These Posthumous Memoirs As a Nostalgic Remembrance

TO THE READER

That Stendhal should have confessed to have written one of his books for a hundred readers is something that brings on wonder and concern. Something that will not cause wonder and probably no concern is whether this other book will have Stendhal’s hundred readers, or fifty, or twenty, or even ten. Ten? Five, perhaps. The truth is that it’s a question of a scattered work where I, Brás Cubas, have adopted the free-form of a Sterne or a Xavier de Maistre. I’m not sure, but I may have put a few fretful touches of pessimism into it. It’s possible. The work of a dead man. I wrote it with a playful pen and melancholy ink and it isn’t hard to foresee what can come out of that marriage. I might add that serious people will find some semblance of a normal novel, while frivolous people won’t find their usual one here. There it stands, deprived of the esteem of the serious and the love of the frivolous, the two main pillars of opinion.

Nonetheless, I hope to entice sympathetic opinion and the first trick is to avoid any explicit and long prologue. The best prologue is the one that says the fewest things or which tells them in an obscure and truncated way. Consequently, I shall not recount the extraordinary process through which I undertook the composition of these Memoirs, put together here in the other world. It would have been interesting but excessively long and also unnecessary for an understanding of the work.

The work itself is everything: if it pleases you, dear reader, I shall be well paid for the task; if it doesn’t please you, I’ll pay you with a snap of the finger and goodbye.

 — Brás Cubas

I - The Author s Demise

For some time I debated over whether I should start these memoirs at the beginning or at the end, that is, whether I should put my birth or my death in first place. Since common usage would call for beginning with birth, two considerations led me to adopt a different method: the first is that I am not exactly a writer who is dead but a dead man who is a writer, for whom the grave was a second cradle; the second is that the writing would be more distinctive and novel in that way. Moses, who also wrote about his death, didn’t place it at the opening but at the close: a radical difference between this book and the Pentateuch.

With that said, I expired at two o’clock on a Friday afternoon in the month of August, 1869, at my beautiful suburban place in Catumbi. I was sixty-four intense and prosperous years old, I was a bachelor, I had wealth of around three hundred cantos and I was accompanied to the cemetery by eleven friends. Eleven friends! The fact is, there hadn’t been any cards or announcements. On top of that it was raining — drizzling — a thin, sad, constant rain, so constant and so sad that it led one of those last-minute faithful friends to insert this ingenious idea into the speech he was making at the edge of my grave: “You who knew him, gentlemen, can say with me that nature appears to be weeping over the irreparable loss of one of the finest characters humanity has been honored with. This somber air, these drops from heaven, those dark clouds that cover the blue like funeral crepe, all of it is the cruel and terrible grief that gnaws at nature and at my deepest insides; all that is sublime praise for our illustrious deceased.”

Good and faithful friend! No, I don’t regret the twenty bonds I left you. And that was how I reached the closure of my days. That was how I set out for Hamlet’s undiscovered country without the anxieties or doubts of the young prince, but, rather, slow and lumbering, like someone leaving the spectacle late. Late and bored. Some nine or ten people had seen me leave, among them three ladies: my sister Sabina, married to Cotrim — their daughter, a lily of the valley, — and ... Be patient! In just a little while I’ll tell you who the third lady was. Be content with knowing that the unnamed one, even though not a relative, suffered more than the relatives did. It’s true. She suffered more. I’m not saying that she wailed, I’m not saying that she rolled on the ground in convulsions, or that my passing was a highly dramatic thing ... An old bachelor who expires at the age of sixty-four doesn’t seem to gather up all the elements of a tragedy in himself. And even if that were the case, what least suited that unnamed lady was to show such feelings. Standing by the head of the bed, her eyes cloudy, her mouth half open, the sad lady had a hard time believing my extinction.

“Dead! Dead!” she kept saying to herself.

And her imagination, like the storks that an illustrious traveler watched taking flight from the Ilissus on their way to African shores without the hindrance of ruins and times — that lady’s imagination also flew over the present rubble to the shores of a youthful Africa ... Let it go. We’ll get there later on. We’ll go there when I get my early years back. Now I want to die peacefully, methodically, listening to the ladies sobbing, the men talking softly, the rain drumming on the caladium leaves of my suburban home and the strident sound of a knife a grinder is sharpening outside by a harness-maker’s door. I swear to you that the orchestra of death was not at all as sad as it might have seemed. From a certain point on it even got to be delightful. Life was thrashing about in my chest with the surging of an ocean wave. My consciousness was evaporating. I was descending into physical and moral immobility and my body was turning into a plant, a stone, mud, nothing at all.

I died of pneumonia, yet if I tell my reader that it wasn’t so much the pneumonia that caused my death but a magnificent and useful idea, he might not believe me and, nevertheless, it’s the truth. Let me explain briefly. You can judge for yourself.

II - The Poultice

As it so happened, one day in the morning while I was strolling about my place an idea started to hang from the trapeze I have in my brain. Once hanging there it began to wave its arms and legs and execute the most daring antics of a tightrope-walker that anyone could imagine. I let myself stand there contemplating it. Suddenly it took a great leap, extended its arms and legs until it took on the shape of an X: decipher me or I’ll devour you.

That idea was nothing less than the invention of a sublime remedy, an antihypochondriacal poultice, destined to alleviate our melancholy humanity. In the patent application that I drew up afterward I brought that truly Christian product to the government’s attention. I didn’t hide from friends, however, the pecuniary rewards that would of needs result from the distribution of a product with such far-reaching and profound effects. But now that I’m on the other side of life I can confess everything: what mainly influenced me was the pleasure I would have seeing in print in newspapers, on store counters, in pamphlets, on street corners and, finally, on boxes of the medicine these three words: Brás Cubas Poultice. Why deny it? I had a passion for ballyhoo, the limelight, fireworks. More modest people will censure me perhaps for this defect. I’m confident, however, that clever people will recognize this talent of mine. So my idea had two faces, like a medal, one turned toward the public and the other toward me. On one side philanthropy and profit, on the other a thirst for fame. Let us say:  — love of glory.

An uncle of mine, a canon with full prebend, liked to say that love of temporal glory was the perdition of souls, who should covet only eternal glory. To which another uncle, an officer in one of those old infantry regiments called terços, would retort that love of glory was the most truly human thing there was in a man and, consequently, his most genuine attribute.

Let the reader decide between the military man and the canon. I’m going back to the poultice.

III - Genealogy

Now that I’ve mentioned my two uncles, let me make a short genealogical outline here.

The founder of my family was a certain Damiao Cubas, who flourished in the first half of the eighteenth century. He was a cooper by trade, a native of Rio de Janeiro, where he would have died in penury and obscurity had he limited himself to the work of barrel making. But he didn’t. He became a farmer. He planted, harvested and exchanged his produce for good, honest silver patacas until he died, leaving a nice fat inheritance to a son, the licentiate Luis Cubas. It was with this young man that my series of grandfathers really begins — the grandfathers my family always admitted to — because Damiao Cubas was, after all, a cooper and perhaps even a bad cooper, while Luis Cubas studied at Coimbra, was conspicuous in affairs of state and was a personal friend of the viceroy, Count da Cunha.

Since the surname Cubas, meaning kegs, smelled too much of cooperage, my father, Damiao’s great-grandson, alleged that the aforesaid surname had been given to a knight, a hero of the African campaigns, as a reward for a deed he brought off: the capture of three hundred barrels from the Moors. My father was a man of imagination; he flew out of the cooperage on the wings of a pun. He was a good character, my father, a worthy and loyal man like few others. He had a touch of the fibber about him, it’s true, but who in this world doesn’t have a bit of that? It should be noted that he never had recourse to invention except after an attempt at falsification. At first, he had the family branch off from that famous namesake of mine, Captain-Major Brás Cubas, who founded the town of Sao Vicente, where he died in 1592 and that’s why he named me Brás. The captain-major’s family refuted him, however and that was when he imagined the three hundred Moorish kegs.

A few members of my family are still alive, my niece Venancia, for example, the lily of the valley, which is the flower for ladies of her time. Her father, Cotrim, is still alive, a fellow who... But let’s not get ahead of events. Let’s finish with our poultice once and for all.

IV - The Idée Fixe

My idea, after so many leaps and bounds, had become an idée fixe.

God save you, dear reader, from an idée fixe, better a speck, a mote in the eye. Look at Cavour: It was the idée fixe of Italian unity that killed him. It’s true that Bismarck didn’t die, but we should be warned that nature is terribly fickle and history eternally meretricious. For example, Suetonius gave us a Claudius who was a simpleton — or “a pumpkinhead” as Seneca called him — and a Titus who deserved being the delight of all Rome. In modern times a professor came along and found a way of demonstrating that of the two Caesars the delight, the real delight, was Seneca’s “pumpkinhead.” And you Madame Lucrezia, flower of the Borgias, if a poet painted you as the Catholic Messalina, along came an incredulous Gregorovius who did a great deal to quench that quality and even if you didn’t come out a lily, you weren’t a smelly fen either. I’ll take my position between the poet and the savant.

So, long live history, voluble history, which is good at anything and, getting back to the idée fixe, let me say that it’s what produces strong men and madmen. A mobile idea, vague or changeable, is what produces a Claudius — according to the formula of Suetonius.

My idea was fixed, fixed like ... I can’t think of anything fixed enough in this world: maybe the moon, maybe the pyramids of Egypt, maybe the dead German Diet. Let the reader find the comparison that fits best, let him find it and not stand there with his nose out of joint just because we haven’t got to the narrative part of these memoirs. We’ll get there. I think he prefers anecdotes to reflections, like other readers, his confreres and I think he’s right. So let’s get on with it. It must be said, however, that this book is written with apathy, with the apathy of a man now freed of the brevity of the century, a supinely philosophical work, of an unequal philosophy, now austere, now playful, something that neither builds nor destroys, neither inflames nor cools and, yet it is more than a pastime and less than an apostolate.

Let’s go. Straighten out your nose and let’s get back to the poultice. Let’s leave history with its whims of an elegant lady. Neither of us fought the battle of Salamina or wrote the Augsburg Confession. For my part, if I can ever remember Cromwell it’s only because of the idea that His Highness, with the same hand that locked up Parliament might have imposed the Brás Cubas poultice on the English. Don’t laugh at that joint victory of pharmaceutics and puritanism . Who isn’t aware that beneath every great, public, showy flag quite often there are several other modestly private banners that are unfurled and waving in the shadow of the first and ever so many times outlive it? To make a poor comparison, it’s like the rabble huddled in the shadow of a feudal castle and when the latter fell, the riffraff remained. The fact is they be came big shots and castellans... No, that’s not a good comparison.

V -  In Which a Ladys Ear Appears

When I was busy preparing and refining my invention, however, I was caught in a strong draft. I fell ill right after and I didn’t take care of myself. I had the poultice on my brain. I was carrying with me the idée fixe of the mad and the strong. I could see myself from a distance rising up from the mob-ridden earth and ascending to heaven like an immortal eagle and before such a grand spectacle no man can feel the pain that’s jabbing at him. The next day I was worse. I finally did something about it, but in an incomplete way, with no method or attention or follow-through. Such was the origin of the illness that brought me to eternity. You already know that I died on a Friday, an unlucky day and I think I’ve shown that it was my invention that killed me. There are less lucid and no less winning demonstrations.

It might not have been impossible, however, for me to have climbed to the heights of a century and figure in the pages of newspapers among the great. I was healthy and robust. Let it be imagined that, instead of laying down the bases for a pharmaceutical invention, I was trying to bring together the elements of a political institution or a religious reformation. The current of air came and efficiently conquered human calculations and there went everything. That’s the way man’s fate goes.

With that reflection I took leave of the woman, I won’t say the most discreet, but certainly the most beautiful among her contemporaries, the one whose imagination, like the storks on the Ilissus . . . She was fifty-four then, she was a ruin, a splendid ruin. Let the reader imagine that we had been in love, she and I, many years before and that, one day, when I was already ill, I see her appear in the door of my bedroom.

VI -  Chimene, Qui L’eut Dit? Rodrigue, Qui L’eut Cru?

I see her appear in the door of my bedroom — pale, upset, dressed in black — and remain there for a minute without the courage to come in, or held back by the presence of the man who was with me. From the bed where I was lying, I contemplated her all that time, neglecting to say anything to her or make any gesture. We hadn’t seen each other for two years and I saw her now not as she was but as she had been, as we both had been, because some mysterious Hezekiah had made the sun turn back to the days of our youth. The sun turned back, I shook off all my miseries and this handful of dust that death was about to scatter into the eternity of nothingness was stronger than time, who is the minister of death. No water from Juventus could match simple nostalgia in that.

Believe me, remembering is the least evil. No one should trust present happiness, there’s a drop of Cain’s drivel in it. With the passing of time and the end of rapture, then, yes, then perhaps it’s possible really to enjoy, because between these two illusions the better one is the one that’s enjoyed without pain.

The evocation didn’t last long. Reality took over immediately. The present expelled the past. Perhaps I’ll explain to the reader in some corner of this book my theory of human editions. What matters now is that Virgília — her name was Virgília — entered the room with a firm step, with the gravity that her clothes and the years gave her and came over to my bed. The outsider got up and left. He was a fellow who would visit me every day and talk about exchange rates, colonization and the need for developing railroads, nothing of greater interest to a dying man. He left. Virgília stood there. For some time we remained looking at each other without uttering a word. What was there to say? Of two great lovers, two great passions, there was nothing left twenty years later. There were only two withered hearts devastated by life and glutted with it; I don’t know whether in equal doses, but glutted nonetheless. Virgília now had the beauty of age, an austere, maternal look. She was less thin than when I saw here the last time at a Saint John’s festival in Tijuca and, as she was someone who had a great deal of resistance, only now were a few silver threads beginning to mingle with her dark hair.

“Are you making the rounds visiting dying men?” I asked her. “Come now, dying men!” Virgília answered with a pout. And then, after squeezing my hands, “I’m making the rounds to see if I can get lazy loafers back out onto the street.”

It didn’t have the teary caress of other times, but her voice was friendly and sweet. She sat down. I was alone in the house except for a male nurse. We could talk to each other without any danger. Virgília gave me lots of news from the world outside, narrating it with humor, with a certain touch of a wicked tongue, which was the salt of her talk. I, ready to leave the world, felt a satanic pleasure in making fun of it all, in persuading myself that I wasn’t leaving anything worthwhile.

“What kind of ideas are those?” Virgília interrupted me, a little annoyed. “Look, I’m not going to come back. Dying! We all have to die. It’s enough just being alive.”

And looking at the clock:

“Good heavens! It’s three o’clock. I’ve got to go.”

“So soon?”

“Yes. HI come back tomorrow or sometime later.”

“I don’t know if you’re doing the proper thing,” I replied. “The patient is an old bachelor and the house has no women in it...”

“What about your sister?”

“She’s going to come and spend a few days here, but she can’t get here until Saturday.”

Virgília thought for a moment, straightened up and said gravely:

“I’m an old. woman! Nobody pays any attention to me anymore. But just to put an end to any doubts I’d come with Nhonhô,”

Nhonhô was a lawyer, the only child from her marriage, who at the age of five had been the unwitting- accomplice in our love affair. They came together two days later and I must confess that when I saw them there in my bedroom I was taken by a reticence that prevented me from replying immediately to the lad’s affable words. Virgília sensed this and told her son:

“Nhonhô, don’t pay any attention to that big trickster there. He doesn’t want to talk so he can make you think that he’s at death’s door.” Her son smiled. I think I smiled, too and everything ended up as a big joke. Virgília was serene and smiling. She had the look of immaculate life. No suspect look, no gesture that might have given anything away, a balance in word and spirit, control over herself, all of which seemed — and perhaps was — strange. As by chance we touched upon an illicit love affair, half-secret, half-known, I saw her speak a disdainful word and a bit indignantly about the woman involved, a friend of hers besides. Her son felt satisfied when he heard that strong and fitting word and I asked myself what the hawks might have said about us humans if Buffon had been born a hawk . . .

It was the start of my delirium.

VII -  Delirium

As far as I know, no one has ever spoken about his own delirium. I’m doing just that and science will thank me for it. If the reader isn’t given to the contemplation of these mental phenomena, he may skip this chapter and go straight to the narrative. But if he has the slightest bit of curiosity, I can tell him now that it’s interesting to know what went on in my head for some twenty or thirty minutes.

At the very first I took on the figure of a Chinese barber, potbellied, dexterous, who was giving a close shave to a mandarin, who paid me for my work with pinches and sweets: the whims of a mandarin.

Right after that I felt myself transformed into Aquinas’ Summa The-ologica, printed in one volume and morocco-bound, with silver clasps and illustrations. This was an idea that gave my body a most complete immobility and even now I can remember that with my hands as the book’s clasps crossed over my stomach, someone was uncrossing them (Virgília most certainly) because that position gave her the image of a dead person.

Finally, restored to human form, I saw a hippopotamus come and carry me off. I let myself go, silent, I don’t know whether out of fear or trust, but after a short while the running became so dizzying that I dared question him and in some way told him that the trip didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

“You’re wrong,” the animal replied, “were going to the origin of the centuries.”

I suggested that it must be very far away, but the hippopotamus either didn’t understand me or didn’t hear me, unless he was pretending one of those things and when I asked him, since he could talk, if he were a descendant of Achilles’ horse or Balaam’s ass, he answered me with a gesture peculiar to those two quadrupeds, he flapped his ears. For my part, I closed my eyes and let myself go where chance would take me. I must confess now, however, that I felt some sort of prick of curiosity to find out where the origin of the centuries was, if it was as mysterious as the origin of the Nile and, most of all, whether the consummation of those same centuries was really worth anything: the reflections of a sick mind. Since I was going along with my eyes closed, I couldn’t see the road. I can only remember that a feeling of cold grew stronger as the journey went on and that a time came when it seemed to me that we were entering the region of perpetual ice. In fact, I opened my eyes and saw that my animal was galloping across a white plain of snow, here and there a mountain of snow, vegetation of snow and several large animals of snow. Everything snow. A sun of snow was coming out to freeze us. I tried to speak but all I could manage was to grunt this anxious question:

“Where are we?”

“We just passed Eden.”

“Fine. Let’s stop at Abraham’s tent.”

“But we’re traveling backward!” my mount retorted mockingly.

I was vexed and confused. The trip was beginning to seem tiresome and reckless, the cold was uncomfortable, the ride furious and the result impalpable. And afterward — the cogitations of a sick man — if we did reach the indicated goal, it wasn’t impossible that the centuries, annoyed at having their origin infringed upon, would squash me between their fingers, which must have been as age-old as they. While I was thinking along those lines we were gobbling up the road and the plain flew under our feet until the animal became fatigued and I was able to look more calmly at my surroundings. Only look: I saw nothing except the vast whiteness of the snow, which by now had invaded the sky itself, blue up till then. Here and there a plant or two might appear, huge and brutish, the broad leaves waving in the wind. The silence of that region was like a tomb. It could be said that the life of things had become stupidity for man.

Had it fallen out of the air? Detached itself from the earth? I don’t know. I do know that a huge shape, the figure of a woman, appeared to me then, staring at me with eyes that blazed like the sun. Everything about that figure had the vastness of wild forms and everything was beyond the comprehension of human gaze because the outlines were lost in the surroundings and what looked thick was often diaphanous. Stupefied, I didn’t say a word, I couldn’t even let out a cry, but after a time, which was brief, I asked who she was and what her name was: the curiosity of delirium.

“Call me Nature or Pandora. I am your mother and your enemy.”

When I heard that last word, I drew back a little, overcome by fear. The figure let out a guffaw, which produced the effect of a typhoon around us; plants twisted and a long moan broke the silence of external things.

“Don’t be frightened,” she said, “my enmity doesn’t kill, it’s confirmed most of all by life. You’re alive: that’s the only torment I want.”

“I’m alive?” I asked, digging my nails into my hands as if to certify my existence.

“Yes, worm, you’re alive. Don’t worry about losing those rags that are your pride, you’re still going to taste the bread of pain and the wine of misery for a few hours. You’re alive. Right now while you’re going crazy, you’re alive and if your consciousness gets an instant of wisdom, you’ll say you want to live.”

Saying that, the vision reached out her arm, grabbed me by the hair and lifted me up as if I were a feather. Only then did I manage to get a close look at her face, which was enormous. Nothing more serene; no violent contortion, no expression of hatred or ferocity. The only expression, general, complete, was that of selfish impassivity, that of eternal deafness, that of an immovable will. Wrath, if she had any, was buried in her heart. At the same time, in that face of glacial expression there was a look of youth and a blend of strength and vitality before which I felt the weakest and most decrepit of creatures.

“Did you understand me?” she asked me after some time of mutual contemplation.

“No,” I answered, “nor do I want to understand you. You’re an absurdity, you’re a fable. I’m dreaming most certainly or if it’s true that I went mad, you’re nothing but the conception of a lunatic. I mean a hollow thing that absent reason can’t control or touch. You Nature? The Nature I know is only mother and not enemy. She doesn’t make life a torment, nor' does she, like you, carry a face that’s as indifferent as the tomb. And why Pandora?”

“Because I cany good and evil in my bag and the greatest thing of all, hope, the consolation of mankind. Are you trembling?”

“Yes, your gaze bewitches me.”

“I should think so. I’m not only life, I’m also death and you’re about to give me back what I loaned you. You great lascivious man, the voluptuosity of nothingness awaits you.”

When that word, “nothingness,” echoed like a thunderclap m that huge valley, it was like the last sound that would reach my ears. I seemed to feel my own sudden decomposition. Then I faced her with pleading eyes and asked for a few more years.

“You miserable little minute!” she exclaimed. “What do you want a few more instants of life for? To devour arid be devoured afterward? Haven’t you had enough spectacle and straggle? You’ve had more than enough of what I presented you with that’s the least base or the least painful: the dawn of day, the melancholy of afternoon, the stillness of night, the aspects of the land, sleep, which when all’s said and done is the greatest benefit my hands can give. What more do you want, you sublime idiot?”

“just to live, that’s all I ask of you. Who put this love of life in my heart if not you? And since I love life why must you hurt yourself by killing me?”

“Because I no longer need you. The minute that passes doesn't matter to time, only the minute that’s coming. The minute that’s coming is strong, merry, it thinks it carries eternity in itself and it carries death and it perishes just like the other one, but time carries on. Selfishness, you say? Yes, selfishness, I have no other law. Selfishness, preservation. The jaguar kills the calf because the jaguar’s reasoning is that it must live and if the calf is tender, so much the better: that’s the universal law. Come up and have a look.”