Read Online The Alienist and Other Stories of Nineteenth-Century Brazil by Machado de Assis - Free Book Online
Authors: Machado de Assis
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night. But downtown? For a lawyer? I can’t see it.”
“That’s just silly, dear.”
“Okay, but will you do it as a favor to me?”
Conrado struck a match, lit his cigarette, and made a humorous gesture, preparing to change the subject. But his wife insisted, and her insistence, which had been gentle and imploring, turned suddenly rough and imperious. Conrado was shocked. He knew his wife, who was ordinarily a passive creature, soft and tender, of great plasticity. She could wear a royal diadem or a common scarf with the same, blissful indifference. The proof was that, after her footloose and fancy-free last two unmarried years, the wedding had made her a homebody. She rarely went out, did so only at the urging of her consort, and always seemed happiest at home. Curtains, furnishings, and beautiful objects made up for the absence of children; she loved them like a mother. To see the curtains creased just so, each piece of furniture in its place, produced visceral pleasure in Mariana. Of the three windows that looked onto the street, for example, one was always precisely half open, and always the same one. Not even her husband’s study escaped her need for reliable regularity. If he happened to straighten his books, she might intervene to restore disorder. Her mental habits displayed the same monotonous uniformity. Mariana read the same books over and over, all standard fare for a proper young Brazilian lady: Joaquim Macedo’s Moreninha , seven times; Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe , ten times; Madame Craven’s Mot de l’énigme , eleven times. 1
In other words, how to explain her sudden desire to change his hat? The night before, while her husband attended a meeting of the bar association, Mariana’s father had visited his daughter. He was a good old man, lean and slow moving, a retired career bureaucrat nostalgic for the days when government offices were full of men in long tailcoats. A tailcoat was what he still wore to funerals decades later, and not, as one might expect, because of the solemnity of death or the gravity of the last farewell, but simply because he had the habit of doing so. He gave the same reason for dining daily at two o’clock in the afternoon and for twenty other precisely repeated customs. He was so rigid about his habits that he dined at two even on his daughter’s wedding anniversary, when, every year, he was invited to a six-o’clock dinner at her house. He sat at her table, on those days, and watched everyone else eat, although afterward he did usually accept a bite of dessert, a glass of wine, and some coffee. That was Conrado’s father-in-law. How, indeed, could he approve of his son-in-law’s failure to wear a top hat downtown? He couldn’t; he endured the natty little hat silently, at best, in recognition of Conrado’s fine qualities. He endured it until he happened to see it one day, on a downtown street, conversing with the elegant top hats of several distinguished gentlemen, and he found it disgraceful. That evening, going to Mariana’s house and finding his son-in-law out, he opened his heart. The little hat was an abomination, and it must be banished forever.
Conrado did not know about these origins of the request. In view of his wife’s well-known docility and his own authoritarian inclinations, he couldn’t understand her stubbornness, and it annoyed him profoundly. He contained himself, even so, preferring to make fun of her request. He spoke with such irony and disdain that the poor woman felt humiliated. Twice, Mariana tried to rise from the table, so Conrado held her there, the first time with a light grip around her wrist, the second time with his domineering gaze. And with a smile, he said:
“Look, dear, I have a philosophical reason not to do what you ask. I’ve never told you about this, and now I’m going to confide in you totally.”
Mariana bit her lip and said nothing more. She picked up a table knife and began idly to tap the table, just to do
“That’s just silly, dear.”
“Okay, but will you do it as a favor to me?”
Conrado struck a match, lit his cigarette, and made a humorous gesture, preparing to change the subject. But his wife insisted, and her insistence, which had been gentle and imploring, turned suddenly rough and imperious. Conrado was shocked. He knew his wife, who was ordinarily a passive creature, soft and tender, of great plasticity. She could wear a royal diadem or a common scarf with the same, blissful indifference. The proof was that, after her footloose and fancy-free last two unmarried years, the wedding had made her a homebody. She rarely went out, did so only at the urging of her consort, and always seemed happiest at home. Curtains, furnishings, and beautiful objects made up for the absence of children; she loved them like a mother. To see the curtains creased just so, each piece of furniture in its place, produced visceral pleasure in Mariana. Of the three windows that looked onto the street, for example, one was always precisely half open, and always the same one. Not even her husband’s study escaped her need for reliable regularity. If he happened to straighten his books, she might intervene to restore disorder. Her mental habits displayed the same monotonous uniformity. Mariana read the same books over and over, all standard fare for a proper young Brazilian lady: Joaquim Macedo’s Moreninha , seven times; Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe , ten times; Madame Craven’s Mot de l’énigme , eleven times. 1
In other words, how to explain her sudden desire to change his hat? The night before, while her husband attended a meeting of the bar association, Mariana’s father had visited his daughter. He was a good old man, lean and slow moving, a retired career bureaucrat nostalgic for the days when government offices were full of men in long tailcoats. A tailcoat was what he still wore to funerals decades later, and not, as one might expect, because of the solemnity of death or the gravity of the last farewell, but simply because he had the habit of doing so. He gave the same reason for dining daily at two o’clock in the afternoon and for twenty other precisely repeated customs. He was so rigid about his habits that he dined at two even on his daughter’s wedding anniversary, when, every year, he was invited to a six-o’clock dinner at her house. He sat at her table, on those days, and watched everyone else eat, although afterward he did usually accept a bite of dessert, a glass of wine, and some coffee. That was Conrado’s father-in-law. How, indeed, could he approve of his son-in-law’s failure to wear a top hat downtown? He couldn’t; he endured the natty little hat silently, at best, in recognition of Conrado’s fine qualities. He endured it until he happened to see it one day, on a downtown street, conversing with the elegant top hats of several distinguished gentlemen, and he found it disgraceful. That evening, going to Mariana’s house and finding his son-in-law out, he opened his heart. The little hat was an abomination, and it must be banished forever.
Conrado did not know about these origins of the request. In view of his wife’s well-known docility and his own authoritarian inclinations, he couldn’t understand her stubbornness, and it annoyed him profoundly. He contained himself, even so, preferring to make fun of her request. He spoke with such irony and disdain that the poor woman felt humiliated. Twice, Mariana tried to rise from the table, so Conrado held her there, the first time with a light grip around her wrist, the second time with his domineering gaze. And with a smile, he said:
“Look, dear, I have a philosophical reason not to do what you ask. I’ve never told you about this, and now I’m going to confide in you totally.”
Mariana bit her lip and said nothing more. She picked up a table knife and began idly to tap the table, just to do
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