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Authors: Machado de Assis
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something, but her husband did not permit even that. Gently, he took the knife from her hand and continued:
“Choosing a hat is not as random a thing as you may suppose. To the contrary, the choice is governed by metaphysical principles. He who chooses a hat does not exercise his free will. An obscure determinism is at work. Hat buyers cherish the illusion of free will, and hat sellers who watch a customer try on thirty or forty hats without buying any likewise imagine free will to be at work. But, no, there is a metaphysical principle involved: The hat completes the man; it is an extension of his being, decreed for all eternity. Changing a hat is an act of mutilation. Oddly, this principle has so far remained unremarked. Wise men have studied everything from the stars to earthworms—Laplace with his Mécanique Céleste , for example, or Darwin with his book On the Formation of Vegetable Mould through the Action of Worms —you haven’t read Laplace? And yet no one has thought to examine a hat exhaustively from all angles. No one has noticed the metaphysics of hats. I may write a study of the matter myself. Now, though, it’s a quarter to ten o’clock. You can reflect on what I’ve said. Who knows? It may be, in fact, that the man completes the hat, rather than vice versa …”
Mariana finally managed to get up and leave the table. She had understood nothing but his sarcastic tone, and inside she was weeping with humiliation. Her husband went upstairs to dress and came back down a few minutes later to stand in front of her with the famous hat on his head. Mariana found it disgraceful, just as her father had said, vulgar and disgraceful. Conrado took his leave with considerable ceremony and went out.
The lady’s irritation had lessened somewhat, but the taste of humiliation remained in her mouth. Mariana did not clamor and cry as she had expected to do, however. She reviewed the situation to herself, remembering Conrado’s sarcasm and the simplicity of her request, which might be a little demanding, she recognized, but which hardly justified such rude behavior. She paced back and forth restlessly. She went into the front room and looked from the half-opened window at her husband standing on the street below, waiting for the streetcar, his back to the house, the eternal, disgraceful little hat on his head. Mariana was overcome by hatred of the ridiculous little thing. How had she stood it for so many years? She considered all those years, how docile she had been, consenting always to her husband’s desires and whims, and she asked herself if that weren’t precisely the cause of his behavior that morning. She was a patsy, a pushover. If she had done the same as countless other wives—Clara and Sophia, for example—who treated their husbands as husbands should be treated … well, she would not have suffered the man’s sarcasm that morning, not by half. One thought led to another, and she decided to go out. She dressed and went to visit Sophia, a friend from school, just for a breath of fresh air, not intending to tell her anything.
Sophia was thirty, two years older than Mariana. She was tall, strong, and very self-possessed. She received her friend with the usual fuss, and in view of the other’s silence, easily guessed that something was wrong. Goodbye to Mariana’s resolve to say nothing. At the end of twenty minutes, she had aired the entire matter. Sophia laughed and shook her by the shoulders. She told her that it wasn’t her husband’s fault.
“Oh, it’s my fault,” agreed Mariana.
“Don’t be a patsy, dear. You’ve been too soft with him. Be strong for once. Don’t pay any attention to his little fit. Give him the silent treatment, and when he tries to make up with you, tell him to lose the hat first.”
“Such a trivial thing …”
“Give him your little finger and he’ll take your whole hand, dear. Of course, he will. They all do it. Look at that ninny Beatriz. Didn’t she let her
“Choosing a hat is not as random a thing as you may suppose. To the contrary, the choice is governed by metaphysical principles. He who chooses a hat does not exercise his free will. An obscure determinism is at work. Hat buyers cherish the illusion of free will, and hat sellers who watch a customer try on thirty or forty hats without buying any likewise imagine free will to be at work. But, no, there is a metaphysical principle involved: The hat completes the man; it is an extension of his being, decreed for all eternity. Changing a hat is an act of mutilation. Oddly, this principle has so far remained unremarked. Wise men have studied everything from the stars to earthworms—Laplace with his Mécanique Céleste , for example, or Darwin with his book On the Formation of Vegetable Mould through the Action of Worms —you haven’t read Laplace? And yet no one has thought to examine a hat exhaustively from all angles. No one has noticed the metaphysics of hats. I may write a study of the matter myself. Now, though, it’s a quarter to ten o’clock. You can reflect on what I’ve said. Who knows? It may be, in fact, that the man completes the hat, rather than vice versa …”
Mariana finally managed to get up and leave the table. She had understood nothing but his sarcastic tone, and inside she was weeping with humiliation. Her husband went upstairs to dress and came back down a few minutes later to stand in front of her with the famous hat on his head. Mariana found it disgraceful, just as her father had said, vulgar and disgraceful. Conrado took his leave with considerable ceremony and went out.
The lady’s irritation had lessened somewhat, but the taste of humiliation remained in her mouth. Mariana did not clamor and cry as she had expected to do, however. She reviewed the situation to herself, remembering Conrado’s sarcasm and the simplicity of her request, which might be a little demanding, she recognized, but which hardly justified such rude behavior. She paced back and forth restlessly. She went into the front room and looked from the half-opened window at her husband standing on the street below, waiting for the streetcar, his back to the house, the eternal, disgraceful little hat on his head. Mariana was overcome by hatred of the ridiculous little thing. How had she stood it for so many years? She considered all those years, how docile she had been, consenting always to her husband’s desires and whims, and she asked herself if that weren’t precisely the cause of his behavior that morning. She was a patsy, a pushover. If she had done the same as countless other wives—Clara and Sophia, for example—who treated their husbands as husbands should be treated … well, she would not have suffered the man’s sarcasm that morning, not by half. One thought led to another, and she decided to go out. She dressed and went to visit Sophia, a friend from school, just for a breath of fresh air, not intending to tell her anything.
Sophia was thirty, two years older than Mariana. She was tall, strong, and very self-possessed. She received her friend with the usual fuss, and in view of the other’s silence, easily guessed that something was wrong. Goodbye to Mariana’s resolve to say nothing. At the end of twenty minutes, she had aired the entire matter. Sophia laughed and shook her by the shoulders. She told her that it wasn’t her husband’s fault.
“Oh, it’s my fault,” agreed Mariana.
“Don’t be a patsy, dear. You’ve been too soft with him. Be strong for once. Don’t pay any attention to his little fit. Give him the silent treatment, and when he tries to make up with you, tell him to lose the hat first.”
“Such a trivial thing …”
“Give him your little finger and he’ll take your whole hand, dear. Of course, he will. They all do it. Look at that ninny Beatriz. Didn’t she let her
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