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diff --git a/78403-0.txt b/78403-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..57c79b9 --- /dev/null +++ b/78403-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1786 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78403 *** + + + + + LITTLE BLUE BOOK NO. 733 + Edited by E. Haldeman-Julius + + + + + Brazilian Short + Stories + + + Monteiro Lobato + + + With an Introduction by + Isaac Goldberg + + + + + HALDEMAN-JULIUS COMPANY + GIRARD, KANSAS + + + + + Copyright, 1925, + Haldeman-Julius Company + + + PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + + + + + BRAZILIAN SHORT STORIES + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + Introduction 5 + + Modern Torture 11 + + The Penitent Wag 27 + + The Plantation Buyer 43 + + + + + INTRODUCTION + + +Monteiro Lobato represents the most recent phase of the Brazilian +reaction against Gallic literary influence. Though not pretending +primarily to be a writer, he yet has inaugurated what amounts not “to” +almost to a new period of the national letters. At the bottom of his +nationalism, however, is the one valid foundation of art: sincerity. +If occasionally he overdoes his protest against the French, he may +well be forgiven because of its sound basis; it is part of his own +personality to see things in the primary colors, to play the national +zealot not in any chauvinistic sense; he is no blind follower of the +administrative powers, no nationalist in the ugly sense of cheap +partisan drum-beating, but in the sense that true nationalism is the +logical development of the fatherland’s potentialities. A personally +independent fellow, then, who would achieve for his nation that same +independence. + +The beginning of the World War found Monteiro Lobato established upon +a fazenda, far from the thoughts and centers of literature. It was by +accident that he discovered his gifts as a writer. The story is told +that one day, rendered indignant by the custom of clearing stubble +fields by fire, and thus endangering the bordering inhabitants, he sent +a letter of protest to a large daily in São Paulo. It seems that the +letter was too important, too well-written, too plainly indicative of +natural literary talent, to be relegated to the corner where readers’ +jeremiads usually wail, and that, instead, it was “featured” upon the +first page. From that day the die was cast. The episode, in my opinion, +is far more important than it appears. For, whatever form in which +the man’s later writings are published, they are in a more important +degree just what this initial venture was: a protest, a means of civic +betterment, a national contribution. + +It was with the collection named “Urupês” (Fungi) that Lobato +definitely established himself. Upon the success of that book he has +built a powerful publishing house, a splendid magazine (“Revista do +Brasil”--The Brazilian Review), a veritable literary movement. He +excels in stinging comment upon current affairs; he writes books +for the primary schools; he is a practical nature bent upon visibly +altering the national course. As a writer, he is “anti-literary,” +scorning the finer graces. Together with a similar group in Buenos +Aires he underestimates the aesthetic element in art, confusing it, +perhaps, with the snobbish, aloof, vapory spirits who have a habit of +infesting all movements with their neurotic lucubrations. Yet such +a view may do him, as it does Manuel Gálvez in Argentina, or Upton +Sinclair in the United States, injustice. His style, his attitude, his +product, are directly conditioned by the ambient in which he works +and the problems he has set out to solve. Less unjust, surely is the +criticism that may be made against him when--as is characteristic of +such natures--his earnestness degenerates into special pleading, when +his intense feeling tapers off into sentimentality, and when what was +meant to be humor falls away to caricature. + +Lobato’s work in every phase is first of all an act of nationalism. +To this caustic spirit, the real Brazil--the Brazil that must set to +work stamping its impress upon the arts of the near future--lies in the +interior of the country, away from the cosmopolitanism of the littoral. +Yet his practise largely belies this implied regionalism. + +That he is gifted with the rare faculty of self-criticism may be seen +from a letter I received from him some time after I had introduced him +to North American readers in a newspaper article. + +“I was born,” he wrote, “on the 18th of April, 1883, in Tabauté, State +of São Paulo, the son of parents who owned a coffee plantation. I +began my studies in the city, proceeding later to São Paulo, where +I matriculated as a law student, being graduated, like everybody +else, as a Bachelor of Laws. Fond of literature, I read a great deal +in my youth: my favorite authors were Kipling, Maupassant, Tolstoi, +Dostoievsky, Balzac, Wells, Dickens, Camillo Castello Branco, Eça de +Queiroz and Machado de Assis ... but I never allowed myself to be +dominated by any one.” (Let me interrupt the letter long enough to +quote Lobato on literary influences. In his stimulating collection of +critiques entitled “Idéas de Jéca Tatu” he has said: “Let us agree that +imitation is, in fact, the greatest of creative forces. He imitates who +assimilates processes. Who copies, does not imitate; he steals. Who +plagiarizes does not imitate; he apes.” And let us recall that Lobato +presents this book as “a war-cry in favor of personality).” To continue +with the letter: + +“I like to see with my own eyes, smell with my own nose. All my +work reveals this personal impression, almost always cruel, for, in +my opinion, we are the remnant of a race approaching annihilation. +Brazil will be something in the future, but the man of today, the +Luso-Africano-Indian will pass out of existence, absorbed and +assimilated by other, stronger races ... just as the primitive +aborigine passed. Even as the Portuguese caused the disappearance +of the Indian, so will the new races cause the disappearance of the +hybrid Portuguese, whose rôle in Brazilian civilization is already +fulfilled, having consisted in the vast labor of clearing the land by +the destruction of the forests. The language will remain, gradually +more and modified by the influence of the new milieu, so different from +the Lusitanian milieu. + +“Brazil is an ailing country.” + +Let me interrupt once again, to say that in his pamphlet “Problema +Vital,” Lobato studies this problem, indicating that man will be +victorious over the tropical zone through the new arms of hygiene. +The pamphlet caused a turmoil throughout Brazil, and sides were at +once formed, the one considering Lobato a defamer of the nation, the +other seeing in the work an act of sanative patriotism. As a result, +a national program of sanitation was inaugurated. This realism of +approach, so characteristic of Lobato, made of his figure Jéca Tatu a +symbol that has in many minds replaced the idealized image of Pery, +from Alencar’s “Guarany.” Jéca thus stands for the most recent critical +reaction against national romanticism. + +“I recognize now,” continues Lobato in the letter, “that I was cruel, +but it was the only way of stirring opinion in that huge whale of most +rudimentary nervous system which is my poor Brazil. I am not properly +a literary man. I take no pleasure in writing, nor do I attach the +slightest importance to what is called literary glory and similar +follies. I am a particle of extremely sensitive conscience that adopted +the literary form,--fiction, the conte, satire,--as the only means of +being heard and heeded. I achieved my aim and today I devote myself to +the publishing business, where I find a solid means of sustaining the +great idea that, in order to cure an ailing person he must first be +convinced that he is, in fact, a sick man.” + +Here, as elsewhere, Lobato’s theory is harsher than his practise. He +is, of course, a literary man, and has achieved a distinctive style; +but he knows, as his letter hints, that his social strength may prove +his literary weakness. The truth would seem to be that Monteiro Lobato +is not so much a teller of stories as he is a critic of men. The +three tales by which he is represented in this booklet come from his +“Urupês”; they exhibit him at his favorite pursuit of caricaturing +his fellow men, of deriding their political foibles, their personal +weakness, their social shortcomings. “Modern Torture” would not have +shamed Mark Twain. It is not so intimately Brazilian that it cannot +apply, with little alteration, to wardheelers in the United States. +“The Penitent Wag” is an experiment in the macabre that also serves as +a piece of social criticism. “The Plantation Buyer” is just as comical +in the United States of America as in the United States of Brazil. + +As I write, Lobato’s São Paulo is seething with revolt. Revolution, in +ideas and in action have been the history of that region. It is not the +least of Lobato’s virtues that his intellectual revolt seeks practical +outlet. He means his blue-prints to be, some day, inspiring temples. +And he is one of the finest social architects of contemporary Brazil.[1] + + ISAAC GOLDBERG + +Roxbury, Massachusetts, 1924. + + + + + BRAZILIAN SHORT STORIES + + + + + MODERN TORTURE + + +All the barbarity practiced by the Holy Inquisition to subjugate +heretics, the clever tortures of the medieval rack, Ottoman impalement, +the torture of the thousand pieces, the red-hot molten lead, poured +down the throat through a funnel--all the old science of martyrdom +still exists to this day, cloaked under clever disguises. Humanity is +ever the same cruel destroyer of itself, either in centuries before or +after Christ. The form of things changes; but the substance remains the +same. + +As proof I here adduce the avatar of the ancient tortures: the +postman’s job. + +This torture is equal to the wheel, the bonfire, strangulation, the +strappado, the bronze bull, impalement, the cat-o’-nine-tails, the +pillory, the hydraulic whipping-post; the difference being that these +machines killed with relative rapidity, while the postman’s job +prolongs the agony of the victim for years. + +A man goes into the service of postman in the following manner: the +Government, at the hateful suggestion of some political “boss,”--the +modern substitute of the “servant” of the inquisition,--appoints a +citizen mail-carrier between two neighboring towns not served by a +railroad. + +The innocent man sees both honor and business in the case: it is +an honor to become one of the crowded phalanx of budget-devouring +parasites who patiently digest the country; it is a good business to +taste at the end of each month a fixed salary and to have, nicely +prepared for the future, the soft bed of a pension. + +Here we see the difference between the ominous medieval times and the +super-excellency of the democracy of the present day. + +Absolutism brutally seized the victims and without warning or +“habeas-corpus,” murdered them; democracy works with the cunning +of a hypocrite, sets traps, sticks a slice of orange inside and +treacherously waits for the famished bird to fall into the noose, of +his own free will. It wants chance victims and does not choose. This is +called art, artfully done.... + +The man having been appointed, at first does not perceive his +misfortune. Only at the end of a month or two he begins to have his +doubts; doubts that gradually become a certainty, a horrible certainty +that he has been impaled on the hard back of the worst plug in the +neighborhood, with five, six, seven leagues of torture before him to +consume per day, with the mail-bag behind him on the horse’s back. +These leagues are the pricks of the instrument of torture. For ordinary +mortals a league is a league; the measure of a distance beginning here +and ending there. The traveler, having covered the distance, arrives +and is satisfied. The leagues of the postman, hardly are they over, +return again “da capo” as in music. Having gone over six (suppose the +route to be one of six leagues), he sees them rise up again in front +of him on his return. He must do them and undo them. Penelope’s web, +rock of Sisyphus, and between the going and coming, the bad digestion +of a warmed-up dinner and a bad night; and thus it continues for a +month, a year, two, three, five, as long as he still has buttocks and +his horse has loins. + +When he meets a traveler on his way he becomes green with envy: that +one will soon “arrive,” whereas, for the postman, this verb is an +ironical derision. He dismounts with difficulty, worn out, his flesh +on fire at the end of the thirty-six thousand metres of the weary way. +He eats a plate of badly cooked beans, and takes a wretched little +nap. The dawn of the next day stretches out before him and by way of +good-morning, the same accursed thirty-six thousand meters of the +evening before, now lengthened out the other way.... + +Soon the sore animal weakens and gives out. Now the rider must climb +the hills on foot. He has no means with which to buy another nag. His +salary is spent for corn and a closely cropped pasture for the horse, +and brine for the baths and other remedies for the bruises of both +rider and ridden. There is nothing left for clothes. + +The State awards--the same State that maintains fat bureaucratic +caterpillars at a _conto_ and Congressional parrots at a hundred _mil +réis_ per day,--awards him, this generous and wealthy State ... +one hundred _mil réis_ per month. That is, one _real_ for +every nine yards of torment. Twenty _réis_ they pay him for +three hundred and thirty meters of torture. That is, one kilometer of +martyrdom for sixty _réis_. Cheaper pain would be impossible.... + +The post-made-man begins to shrink from fatigue and hunger. He gets +thin, his cheeks sink in, his legs become brackets within which dwells +the belly of the wretched horse. + +Besides the physiological, economical and social calamities, he is also +showered with meteorological woes. The inclement weather does not spare +him. In summer the sun roasts him pitilessly, as nuts are roasted in an +oven; if it rains, he misses not a drop; by the end of May, when the +cold weather begins, benumbed like a subject of the Czar in Siberia, +he devours the infernal leagues. On Saint Bartholomew’s day,[2] as he +hangs like grim death to the mane of the lean mare, it is a miracle +that the devilish wind does not tumble them both over a precipice. + +His patrons, the Government, take it for granted that he is made +of iron and his buttocks of chromate of steel; that the roads are +asphalted streets lined with plush; that the weather is a permanent +blue sky with balmy breezes bent upon blowing the sweet perfume of +flowering balsam over the travelers. + +It still takes it for granted that the hundred _mil réis_[3] of +salary is a regal remuneration, to make one smack one’s lips. And, in +these angelical suppositions, when financial crises come and economy +must be considered, it cuts down five or ten _mil réis_ from +his meagre salary so that there may be some margin by which some +brother-in-law, graduated in medicine, can go to Europe on a commission +to study the “zygomatic influence of the solar perihelion on the +Zarathustrian system of Latin democracies.” + +And thus the army of postmen, more and more emaciated every day, head +over heels in debt, covered with bruises, at the mercy of the December +sun or the benumbing June drizzles, trots, trots, unceasingly, up +hill and down dale, through mud-holes and sand-banks, whirlpools and +slippery slopes, shaken up by the miserable mount that from so much +suffering, poor thing, has lost all semblance of a horse. Its loins are +but an open wound; the ribs a lathwork. This sorry caricature of the +noble _Equus_, finally one day falls exhausted and famished in the +midst of the journey. + +The postman throws the harness and the mail-bag over his shoulders +and finishes the journey on foot. However, as on that day he arrives +late, the post-office agent reports to headquarters regarding his +“non-compliance with the rules.” Headquarters get moving; a paper +circulates about several rooms, where, comfortably sprawled out in +expensive armchairs, the stout bureaucracy converses about German +spies. After a long voyage the documents reach an office where a +well filled-out fellow, with good color, is seated at a mahogany desk +smoking a confiscated cigar. + +This one earns eight hundred _mil réis_ per month, is son of +someone, brother-in-law, father-in-law or son-in-law of someone +else, begins work at eleven in the morning and leaves at three with +an interval in between to take a cup of chocolate at the café on the +corner. The fatted pig glances over the paper with lazy, listless eyes +and grunts: + +“These postmen! What vagabonds they are!” + +And signs the dismissal of the culprit for the good of the public +service. + +The poor tortured man, turned out, without health, without a horse, +without flesh, full of debts, his insides dislocated by the shaking up +on horseback, finds himself surrounded by creditors, hungry as vultures +around a slaughterhouse. As he is completely cleaned out, he is unable +to pay any of them and, therefore, becomes known as a swindler. + +“He seemed an honest man and nevertheless robbed me of five measures +of corn,” says the grocer, a fat man from Calabria, who became rich +circulating bogus money. + +“He borrowed one hundred _mil réis_ from me for a horse, at a +small friendly interest (three per cent per month) five years ago, and +all he could pay me was the little premium and the harness as part +payment. What a thief!” said the money-lender, partner of the other in +the circulation of bogus money. + +The dry-goods shop lamented the loss of a pair of cotton trousers sold +on credit to the postman some time ago. The drug store bewailed two +pounds of adulterated Epsom salts. And the martyr, steeped in insults, +only sees one way out of it: to take to his feet and run ... run to +any country where he is unknown and can die in peace. + +Thus the modern torture of the post service, besides drying up the +flesh of a human creature free from crime, gives him a beautiful moral +death. + +And all this so that no news will be lacking to the learned people of +the little towns, unserved by railroads; for they must get the daily +paper and learn about the knifings between Spread-foot and Black Shirt, +the cheese stolen by Little Bahiano from Manoel of the grocery-store, +the novel translated from Georges Ohnet, the country’s rescue from +national thieving, the spouting of Leagues for this and that, the +discovery of spies where there is nothing to spy, polyculture, zebu +oxen, illiteracy, the falsehoods of the International News Agency and +all the nonsense that sprouts from the soil of this wonderful country. + + * * * * * + +Colonel Evandro’s policy in Itaóca fell through when, at a certain +election, the rival candidate Fidencio, also Colonel, hoisted the +quotation of votes of those who wore neck-ties, to five hundred _mil +réis_ and of those who went bare-foot to two suits of clothes and +a hat besides. The first act of the winner was to turn out everyone +turnoutable connected with public employment. Among those dismissed +were the post-office employes, including the postman, who was replaced +at the suggestion of the Government, by Izé Biriba. + +Said Biriba was a human snail, slow in movement and obtuse in ideas, +with two tremendous preoccupations in life: politics and his forelock. +The forelock was a stubborn tangled lock of hair always falling over +his forehead, and so obstinate that he spent half the day raising his +left hand to his forehead in an automatic movement to push back the +rebellious lock. It is needless to say what the politics consisted of. + +Forelock and politics, both combined, took up all of his time so that +Biriba found no spare moment in which to work his farm, which finally, +gnawed by the mortgage-bug, fell into the hands of a wily Italian. + +Then he started a bar that failed. While he pushed back his forelock, +the customers stole the tips from him; and during the political talks, +the men of his party drank cooling drinks and ate fish-cakes in +celebration of the future victory while they spouted sarcastic remarks +against those in power. + +Besides brushing back his forelock, Biriba had the habit of saying, +“Yes, Sir,” used as a comma, semicolon, colon and period in reply to +all the nonsensical remarks of his companions; and sometimes, through +habit, when the customer ceased talking and began to eat, Biriba would +utter a series of “Yes, Sirs,” in accompaniment to the chewing of the +stolen cake. + +At the time of the other man’s fall and the ascent of his own faction, +he was reduced to the conspicuous position of an electoral pawn. + +He worked like a nigger at the election. The bosses gave him the +hardest jobs: to hunt out country voters hidden away in mountain +fastnesses, to do commerce with their consciences, to bargain prices +of votes, exchange them for mangy mares and prove to the unbelieving, +by arguments whispered in their ears, that “the Government is on your +side.” + +After the victory Biriba felt for the first time in his life entire joy +of heart, head and stomach. + +To win! Oh, nectar! Oh incomparable ambrosia! + +Our friend Biriba fully enjoyed the gifts of the gods. At last the +darkness of his life of misery was dispelled by the happy dawn! To eat +plentifully, to have the upper hand ... delights of victory! + +What would the boss give him? + +In anticipation of the prize in prospect he spent his time dreaming +rosy dreams until his appointment as postman was announced. With no +inclination for that work he tried to resist, to ask for more; however, +in a conference with his chief, the objections which rose to his lips +were transmuted into the habitual “Yes, Sir,” so that the Colonel was +convinced that his ideal had been realized. + +“You see, Biriba, what loyalty is worth. You get a fine job! Regino is +to be agent and you postman.” + +The most he could complain of was that he had no horse. + +“That can be managed,” said the Colonel promptly; “I have an Arab mare, +single-footer, thoroughbred, worth two hundred _mil réis_; but +since it is for you, you can have her at half price. The money? That’s +a minor matter. Borrow it from friend Leandro. All can be arranged, +man!” + +The arrangement was that Biriba bought the trotting mare for double the +price she was worth, with money raised at three per cent per month from +said Leandro, who was merely the creature of Fidencio. + +Thus, by a master stroke, the sly boss won interest on the worst nag on +his farm, besides holding the poor idiot, made postman, the halter of +gratitude. + +Biriba began his work: six leagues to do today and undo tomorrow, +without any rest except the thirty-first day of every other month. + +If only he had simply to devour the leagues in company of the limp +mail-bags. His work, however, did not turn out so easy. As Itaóca +was only a little place perched on a ridge of the mountain range and +lacking everything, his political friends were always looking him up to +order something from the city. When it was already time to leave, the +unscrupulous people would appear with lists of notions or messages sent +by little darkies. + +“Missus says will you buy three spools of number 50 thread, a paper of +needles, a roll of white tape, five packages of fine hairpins and if +there is a penny left over will you bring a candy for Master Juquinha?” + +Very often all these articles could be found in Itaóca; a trifle +dearer, however, and therefore the object in ordering them elsewhere +was to save the penny for the candy. + +“Yes, sir, yes, sir!...” + +No other words left his lips, although the continued abuse exasperated +him. Besides the small and less troublesome orders there were other +large ones, such as leading a harnessed horse to Mr. So-and-so who was +to arrive on such and such a day, to accompany Mr. Etcetera’s wife, and +other missions of like nature. Whenever Tiburcia, the collector’s black +cook, went on a holiday rest to the city, Biriba was detailed to take +her. + +It was so I met him, protecting the Amazon. On the way to Itaóca, +half way there, I met a man mounted on the most dilapidated mare that +ever I saw; behind him he carried mail bags and several smaller bags, +besides a new broom stuck into the harness with the straw part up. He +had stopped in a stupid attitude, holding by the bridle a little horse +carrying a side-saddle. I approached him asking for a light. Having lit +the cigarette, I inquired who was riding the other horse. + +“I am accompanying Dona Engracia who is mid-wife in Itaóca; she +dismounted for a moment and....” + +I heard a rustle behind me: out of the woods came a large ruddy woman, +her skirts stiffly starched and on her head a little cap of the time +of His Most Faithful Majesty.... Not to embarrass her I went on my +way, but not without looking out of the corners of my eyes to enjoy +the postman’s difficulty in placing on the little horse the mid-wife’s +generous avoirdupois. + +And the scoldings.... + +“Mr. Biriba, it wasn’t number 40 thread I ordered. You are stupid!” + +When the material was not right: + +“Couldn’t you see that the calico would fade, you ass?” + +What hurt him above all was to carry for the execrable people of the +opposition. The Colonel of the opposite party, neutral or secret +opponent, did not hesitate to take advantage, through the influence of +a third party, of the martyr’s good faith. + +Biriba recalled painfully a thoroughbred goat that gave him great +trouble on the way, and several butts besides; finally upon his arrival +he discovered that the animal was destined for the enemy. Everybody +received news of the incident with laughter and jest. + +“This Biriba is an idiot! To think of his bringing the opposite party’s +goat! Ha! ha! ha!” + +This and other happenings embittered him. He became thin and yellow. + +The poor mare lost all shape of a horse. Her loins became sway-back so +that the rider’s feet nearly touched the ground. Biriba sank when he +mounted. His head nearly came on a level with the mare’s haunches and +ears. Horribly sore, the miserable animal’s eyes were always filled +with tears of pain. All this suffering, however, instead of moving the +hard hearts of the people of Itaóca, amused them and was the cause of +endless ridicule and idiotic jokes about the “postman of the Sorry +Aspect and his Bucephalus,” as they were nicknamed by a town wag.... + +Scrofulous as they, only one other creature, Cunegundes. Cunegundes was +a dog without owner, covered with mange, that strayed about the town +avoiding flies and kicks. What should they do but change Cunegundes’ +name to Biriba! The scoundrels! + +And soon the Government contributed to the torture by deciding to cut +down the salaries of the postmen in order to save itself on a certain +occasion from financial difficulty.... And it did so. + +Clothes threadbare. At the beginning of the rainy season a charitable +soul presented Biriba with an old rain-coat; however, the first +downpour showed the recipient that the coat leaked like a sieve, thus +increasing his difficulty with an overweight of cloth that absorbed +several quarts of water. + +Biriba lost his patience and grumbled. + +Alas! The boss soon heard of it and called him to account. + +“Is it true that you are complaining of the job we gave you? Perhaps +you would rather be elected senator or Vice-President? A shabby thing +that went about nearly dying of hunger, due to our generosity obtains a +Federal post, with a right to a pension, a fairly good salary ... (here +Biriba coughed out a “Yes, Sir”) finds everything easy, receives a good +animal and still complains? What does Your Excellency desire, then?” + +Biriba took his courage in his hands and declared that he only desired +one thing: his dismissal. He was ill, worn out, threatened with the +loss of the mare and his haunches at any moment. He wanted to change +his mode of living. + +“So one’s mode of life can be changed offhand like that? You want to +abandon your friends: And partisan discipline, what of that, my dear +idiot?” + +Biriba’s dismissal would suit no one. + +Who could be of greater service? They recalled the former postmen, rude +fellows, unwilling even to bring a paper of needles to anyone. He must +not leave. He must sacrifice himself for Itaóca. + +However the daily torture of having his insides shaken up along seven +leagues ended by loosening the cement of his political loyalty. The +martyr’s eyes were opened. He remembered with longing the ominous days +of Colonel Evandro, the delights of the bar and even the degrading +cat’s paw service of electioneering days. Things had grown worse +undoubtedly after the victory. + +This free examination of conscience, believe me, was the beginning +of the downfall of Colonel Fidencio. Biriba, the staunch support, +was rotting at the base. He would fall and with him the roof of that +political shanty. In his harassed soul the viper of treason made its +nest.... + +As the new election was approaching, new victory only meant a new +three years of martyrdom for the postman. Biriba confabulated with his +mare and decided that the salvation of both lay in defeat. He would +be dismissed and, veteran and martyr of Fidencio’s party, he would +continue to warrant the support of the party without suffering through +his bruised haunches the hateful contact of the seven daily hours of +shake-up. + +He decided to betray. + +On the eve of the election, Fidencio commissioned him to bring an +important paper from the city for the counting up of votes. Don’t know +what it was. A paper. The word “paper,” said in a mysterious tone, +means “something.”... + +I know nothing of elections. I couldn’t say positively if a “paper” +that isn’t just paper has the power to decide these social ills. All +I know is that everything depended on the “paper,” so much so that +Biriba’s mission was a secret one. Fidencio emphasized the importance +of the commission--the greatest proof of confidence ever given by him +to any electoral pawn. + +“Take care! Our fate is in your hands. There’s confidence for you, hey?” + +Biriba set out; he received the paper and started to return. Half way +he took a side path which led to an old negro’s hut. He loosened the +mare and began to talk with the gorilla. Night fell and Biriba remained +where he was. The next day dawned and Biriba still kept quiet. Ten days +passed thus. At the end of the ten days he harnessed the mare, mounted +and went off to Itaóca as though nothing had happened. + +His appearance caused astonishment. All efforts to find him during the +day of the election and those following had been in vain; they had +given him up as lost, eaten by the panthers, he, mare, mail-bag and +“paper.” Now to see him appear alone and calm, made mouths open and the +whole village gape. What had happened? + +Biriba met all questions with an idiotic expression. He explained +nothing. Knew nothing. Cataleptic sleep? Witchery? He did not +understand what had happened. To him he seemed to have left the day +before and to have come back today. + +Everyone was astonished and looked foolish. Fidencio was in bed with +brain-fever and delirious. He had lost the election completely. “Out +and out defeat,” said Evandro’s followers, setting off whistling +fire-works. + +In consequence of the inexplicable eclipse of the postman, the +exominous Evandro assumed leadership. The slaughter began. Everything +savouring of Fidencio was turned out. + +However the new broom of dismissals spared ... Biriba! The new chief +approached him and said: + +“I threw out all the trash, Biriba, except you. You are the only saving +grace of the Fidencio tribe. Rest easy, your little place will not be +taken from you, even though the heavens fall!...” + +Biriba, for the last time in Itaóca murmured his, “Yes, Sir.” That +night he kissed his mare’s nozzle and went forth on his tip-toes. He +reached the high-road, disappeared, and no one ever saw him again.... + + + + + THE PENITENT WAG + + +Francisco Teixeira de Souza Pontes, bastard scion of a Souza Pontes +family, rich planters of Barreiros and owners of thirty thousand +“arrobas”[4] of coffee, at thirty-two years of age began to take life +seriously. + +A wag by nature, up to that time he had lived off his comic strain and +thereby reaped board, lodging, clothing and all else. His currency +consisted of grimaces, jokes, anecdotes about Englishmen and everything +that tickles the facial muscles of the animal that laughs, commonly +called man, provoking hilarity or raising hearty guffaws. + +He knew So-and-So’s “Encyclopedia of Laughter and Mirth” by heart--the +most mirthless creature God ever made, but such was Pontes’ ability that +he could turn the most feeble jokes into excellent witticisms, to the +delight of his hearers. + +He had a knack for imitating man and beast. The entire gamut of a dog’s +voice, from the baying of the hound chasing the wild pig, to howling at +the moon and all other sounds, growling or barking, were imitated by +him to such perfection as to deceive both dogs and moon. + +He also grunted like a pig, cackled like a hen, croaked like a toad, +scolded like an old woman, whimpered like a baby, enjoined silence like +a Representative or speechified like a patriot at a street meeting. +What two-legged or four-legged hum of voices did he not mimic to +perfection, as long as he had before him an audience well equipped with +those “muscles of mirth” invented by our talented authoress Albertina +Bertha? + +On other occasions he reverted to prehistoric times. When his +hearers were not over ignorant, drawing upon his own modicum of +learning, he would reconstruct for their intellectual delectation the +paleontological roars of extinct brutes, love-growls of mammoths to +their mates or the yells of the _stegosaurus_ upon seeing hairy +_homos_ perched upon tree-ferns, according to the laughable +descriptive science of Barros Barreto. + +If he ran across a group of friends talking on a street corner, he +would come quietly up to them and slap the calf of the nearest leg. It +was funny to see the frightened jump and hear the nervous “Get out!” +of the unsuspecting victim, followed by the hilarious laughter of the +others and also of Pontes who had his own mode of laughter, boisterous +and musical--music after Offenbach. Pontes’ laugh was an imitation of +the natural and spontaneous laughter of the human species, the only one +that laughs, with exception of the drunken fox,--and passed abruptly +without transition into a seriousness irresistibly comic. + +In all his gestures and manner, in his way of walking, reading, eating; +in the most trivial details of life, this man possessed of the devil, +differed from the others in that he made prodigious fun of everything. + +This reached such a point that it was only necessary for him to open +his mouth or raise his hand, for humanity to writhe in laughter. The +sight of him was enough. As soon as he appeared, all faces beamed; if +he made a spontaneous gesture, laughter could be heard, if he opened +his mouth some shrieked, others loosened their belts so as to laugh +better. If he spoke, good Lord! one heard shrieks of laughter, yells, +squeaks, chokes, sniffling and tremendous catching of breath. + +“He beats the devil, this Pontes!” + +“Hold on, man, you’ll make me gag!” + +And when the wit tried to look innocent and idiotic, remarking: + +“But what did I do? I never opened my mouth....” + +“Ha, ha, ha!” everyone laughed, their jaws aching, weeping +spasmodically with uncontrollable hilarity. + +As time passed, the mere mention of his name was enough to provoke +merriment. If anyone pronounced the word “Pontes,” the gun-cotton of +risibles by which man raises himself above animals who do not laugh, +would instantly ignite. + +Thus he lived until the age of Christ in a smiling parable, laughing +and provoking laughter, without a serious thought,--a vagabond life +that exchanges grimaces for dinners and pays small bills with ponderous +jokes. A merchant whom he had cheated once said to him, amidst bursts +of spluttering laughter: + +“You amuse me, at least, and are not like Major Carapuça who cheats +with a face like a wooden Indian.” + +That unstamped receipt troubled our wag not a little; but as the bill +amounted to two dollars, it was well worth the trick. However, the +memory of it remained, like a pin-prick to his self-respect. Following +this came other pin-pricks, some shoved in with less force, others +straight through. + +One wearies of everything. Sick of such a life, the tireless joker +began to dream of the joy of being taken seriously, of speaking and +being listened to without the play of facial muscles, of gesticulating +without disturbing human dignity, of crossing a street without hearing +a chorus of “Here comes Pontes!” in the tone of those who check +laughter or prepare themselves for a hearty guffaw. + +Attempting reaction, Pontes tried to be serious--a disaster! Pontes +solemnly changed his tactics and adopted English humorism. Formerly he +was amusing as a clown, now he took the part of Tony. + +The enormous success which everyone supposed to be a new phase of his +comic strain, threw the penitent wag into despair. Was it possible that +he could never follow any other path in life than that one, now so +hateful to him? A clown then, everlastingly a clown against his will? + +But the life of a grown man requires seriousness, gravity and even +soberness, unnecessary in youth. + +Even the most humble government employment, an office of alderman, +requires that immobility of countenance, characteristic of laughterless +idiocy. One cannot conceive a smiling alderman. Rabelais’ phrase is +lacking in one exception: laughter is the prerogative of the human +species,--aldermen excepted. + +As the years passed, reflection matured, self-respect grew and the free +dinners tasted bitter to him. The coining of joke currency became very +difficult; it no longer was cast with the former light-heartedness; now +it was done as a livelihood, not in thoughtless merriment of the days +past. He mentally compared himself to a circus clown, old and ailing, +obliged through poverty to transform rheumatism into comical faces +required by the paying public. + +He began to flee from mankind and spent months in the study of the +transition necessary to obtain an honest employment for his activities. +He thought of going into business, commerce, the administration of a +plantation, the setting up of a bar--anything was preferable to the +comic idiocy adopted up to the present. + +One day, his plans fully matured, he decided to change his way of +living. He looked up a friendly tradesman and frankly told him of +his intentions to reform, finally asking him for a place in his +business-house, if only that of sweeper. He hardly finished telling +his plans when the Portuguese and all the cashiers who looked on at +a distance awaiting the outcome, writhed in a hearty guffaw, highly +delighted. + +“What a good joke! First class! Ha! ha! ha! Then you ... ha! ha! ha! +You’ll give me a pain, man! If it’s on account of that little bill for +cigarettes, rest easy, I’m already paid for it! Ha! ha! ha! Pontes +has.... Do you hear that one, Jose? Ha! ha! ha!” + +And the clerks, customers, the loafers and even the passers-by stopped +on the sidewalk to hear the joke, and their laughter sounded like +policemen’s rattles as they shook until their sides ached. + +The wretched creature, bewildered and perfectly serious, tried his best +to dispel the misunderstanding: + +“I am in earnest and you have no right to laugh. For God’s sake, don’t +make fun of a poor unfortunate who asks for work and not laughter.” + +The merchant loosened his belt. + +“You mean it? Pshaw! Ha! ha! ha! Look here, Pontes, you....” + +Pontes left him in the middle of his sentence and went forth with his +soul tortured by despair and rage. It was too much. Then everyone +spurned him? + +He applied at other houses in the town, explained as best he could, +implored. The case was judged unanimously as one of the best jokes of +the “incorrigible” wag and many persons commented upon it with the +usual observation: + +“He is still the same! he’ll never behave, that devil of a fellow, and +he is no longer young....” + +Barred from trade, he turned his attention towards the farms. He looked +up an old planter who had dismissed his overseer and stated his case. +The Colonel, after listening attentively to his reasons, ending up with +the offer to take on the job as overseer on the farm, exploded in a fit +of laughter. + +“Pontes overseer! He! he! he!” + +“But....” + +“Let me laugh, man, you don’t hear this sort of thing in the country +very often. He! he! he! Splendid! I have always said there was no wit +like Pontes! None!” + +And shouting within doors: + +“Maria, come and hear Pontes’ latest. He! he! he!” + +That day the unfortunate wag wept. He understood that one cannot +destroy overnight what has taken years to form. His reputation as a +funny man, as a joker, as inimitable, as monumental, was built of far +too good mortar and cement to crumble so soon. + +However, it was necessary to change his mode of life and Pontes began +to reflect on government employment, the most convenient and only +possible master in this abstract case, because it neither knows how +to laugh, nor does it know from close observation the cells whence +laughter arises. This master, and this one alone, would take him +seriously--the road to salvation, therefore, lay in that direction. + +He studied the possibility of a post-office agency, notary office, +collector’s office and others. Weighing well the pros and cons, trumps +and suits, he decided upon the choice of a federal collector’s office, +the occupant of which, a Major Bentes, being old and suffering from +heart trouble, was not expected to last long. His aneurism was the talk +of the town, the final break being expected at any moment. + +Pontes’ trump card was a relative in Rio, a rich man on the way to +influence in politics, should a change of government occur. Pontes +chased after him and worked so hard to interest him in his claim that +the man finally dismissed him with a sure promise. + +“Go in peace, for when the affair breaks out here and your collector +breaks down there, no one will laugh at you any more. Go, and advise me +of the man’s death without waiting for the body to cool.” + +Pontes returned radiant with hope and patiently waited for subsequent +events, with one eye on politics and the other on the provident +aneurism. + +Finally the crisis came; ministries fell, others rose to power and +among these a negotiating politician, partner of the relative. Half the +battle was over, the other half still to be fought. + +Unfortunately the Major’s health came to a standstill without any +visible signs of a rapid decline. His aneurism was, according to the +doctors who killed by allopathy, a serious thing, which could break +with the slightest effort; but the cautious old man was in no hurry to +leave a life of comfort, for a better world, so he fooled the illness +with an ultra-methodical regime. If a violent effort would kill him +then such an effort should not be made. + +Pontes, already almost owner of the prize, became impatient with the +swaying balance of his calculations. How could he clear the way of that +obstacle? He consulted in Chernovitz’s medical manual on aneurisms; +learned it by heart. He inquired here and there about all that had +been said and written on the matter and became more familiar with the +subject than ever Dr. Ioduret, a local doctor, who, we may truthfully +say, knew nothing at all. + +The apple of science thus eaten, he was led to the temptation of +killing the man, obliging him to burst the aneurism. An effort would +kill him? All right, Souza Pontes would lead him to make that effort. + +“A hearty guffaw is an effort,” he satanically philosophized to +himself, “so a guffaw can kill. Well, I know how to provoke laughter.” + +Many days passed, lost to the world in a mental dialogue with Satan. +Crime? No! in what code is to be found the provocation of laughter as +a crime? If the man died of this the fault would be due to the bad +condition of his great artery. + +The rascal’s head turned into a field of combat where his “plan” fought +a duel against all objections raised by conscience. His bitter ambition +served as judge of the contest and heaven knows how often said judge +prevaricated, led by scandalous partiality for one of the combatants. + +As was expected, Satan won and Pontes reappeared before the world a +little thinner, with dark rings under his eyes but with a strange +light of victorious decision in his expression. Anyone observing him +closely would note his nervous manner; however, close observation was +not a prevailing virtue among his countrymen and furthermore, Pontes’ +various states of mind were of no importance because Pontes.... + +“Well, Pontes was just Pontes!” + +The future employe proceeded to plan a careful campaign. In the first +place it was necessary to approach the Major, a reserved man and not +fond of jests; to ingratiate himself into his home life, study his +whims and pet habits until he could discover in what part of his body +lay the weak spot. + +He began to frequent the receiver’s office assiduously, under various +pretexts, sometimes for stamps, sometimes for information regarding +taxes; everything was an excuse for sly and clever prattle meant to +undermine the old man’s severity. + +He would also go on other people’s business for the paying of excise +taxes, taking out permits and other little matters. He became of great +use to the friends who had business with the exchequer. + +The Major was surprised at such assiduity and said so, but Pontes +evaded the question, turning it into a joke, and persevered in a well +calculated conclusion to let time round off the sharp corners of the +sick man. + +Within two months Bentes had become used to that “chipmunk” as he +called him, who on the whole seemed a good sort of fellow, sincere, +eager to be of use and above all, harmless. From asking him a favor +on a very busy day, then another and still a third, and finally +considering him as a sort of adjunct to the department, was only a +step. + +For certain commissions there was no one like him. Such earnestness! +Such subtleness! Such tact! + +One day the Major, reprimanding the clerk, held up his diplomacy as an +example. + +“You great idiot! go learn with Pontes who has a knack for everything, +and is amusing besides.” + +That day he invited Pontes to Dinner. + +Pontes’ soul was filled with joy: the fortress had opened its doors to +him. + +That dinner was the beginning of a series where the “chipmunk,” now an +indispensable factotum, found a first-class field of action for his +tactics. + +Major Bentes, however, possessed one invulnerable point: he never +laughed, he limited his hilarity to ironical smiles. A joke that would +make the other guests rise from the table smothering their mouths in +their table-napkins, would barely elicit a smile from him. And if the +joke were not of the very best, the bored collector pitilessly guyed +the story-teller. + +“That’s old as the hills, Pontes, I remember reading it in Laemmert’s +Almanack for 1850.” + +Pontes would smile with a vanquished look; but would inwardly say,--if +that one wasn’t appreciated another would be. + +All his sagacity was focussed on the discovery of the Major’s weak +point. Each man has a preference for a certain class of humor or wit. +One delights in wanton jests of rotund friars. Another regales himself +with the boisterous good-humoured German joke. Still another would +give a year of his life for the Gaul’s spicy vulgarity. The Brazilian +adores a joke which exposes the rank stupidity of the Portuguese--the +most convenient way our people have found to demonstrate by contrast, +their own intelligence. + +But how about the Major? Why did he not laugh at the English, German, +French or Brazilian jokes? Which did he prefer? + +Systematic observation and methodical exclusion of the classes of humor +already found inefficient, led Pontes to discover the weak point of +his stern adversary. The Major delighted in tales of Englishmen and +friars. But they must be stories of both together. Separate, they were +a failure. Just an old man’s crankiness. At the appearance of red-faced +Britishers, with cork helmets, checked clothes, formidable boots and +pipes, side by side with rotund friars doting upon a hogshead of wine +and revelling in feminine flesh, the Major would open his mouth and +suspend his chewing like a child enticed by candy; and when the comic +climax was reached, he would laugh, but without exaggeration enough to +upset the equilibrium of his circulation. + +Pontes with infinite patience bet on that class of fun and stuck to +it. He increased the program, the spiciness, the dose of malice and +systematically bombarded the Major’s great artery with the fruits of +his clever manipulation. + +When the story was a long one, rendered so because the narrator added +flourishes with a view to hiding the final climax and heightening the +effect, the old man would become highly interested and during the +artful pauses would ask for explanations or continuation: + +“And the rascally Englishman?... And what happened next?... Did Mr. +John call for help?” + +Although the fatal peal of laughter was long in coming, the future +collector did not despair, pinning his faith on the fable of the +pitcher that went so often to the well that it finally broke. + +The calculation was well made. Psychology, as well as Lent, was on his +side. + +One day, Carnival having passed, the Major gathered his friends about +an enormous stuffed fish, a present from the clerk. + +Carnival sport had enlivened the hearts of the guests as well as of the +host who on that day was pleased with himself and the whole world, as +though he had seen the blue-bird. + +When the fish was brought in, the Major’s eyes sparkled; it was +well worth all the bottled aperitives and reflected in all faces an +epicurean tenderness. Fine fish was the Major’s delight, especially +when cooked by Gertrude. And for that dinner Gertrude had excelled in a +seasoning that transcended all culinary art and soared to the height of +the most exquisite poetry. What fish! Vatel could have signed it with +the pen of impotence dipped in the ink of envy, said the clerk, well up +as a reader of Brillat-Savarin and other authorities on good things to +eat. + +Between swallows of rich wine the fish was eaten with religious rites. +No one dared break the silence of that bromatological beatitude. + +Pontes foresaw the opportune moment to play his game. He had brought +full-cocked a case of an Englishman, his wife and two bearded friars, +an anecdote built from the best grey cells of his brain, rendered +ever more perfect through long nights of insomnia. It had been kept +in ambush for days awaiting the moment in which everything would +contribute towards the greatest possible effect. + +It was the last hope of the villain, his last cartridge. If it failed +to go off he would decidedly blow out his brains. He saw that it was +impossible to manipulate a more ingenious torpedo. Should the aneurism +resist the shock, then the aneurism was a bluff, the great artery a +fiction, Chernovitz mere twaddle, medical science worthless and Dr. +Ioduret an ass and he, Pontes, the dullest, most insipid creature under +the sun, therefore unworthy to live. + +Pontes meditated thus, alluring the poor victim with the eyes of +psychology when the Major met him halfway and winked his left eye at +him. + +“The time has come,” thought the scoundrel and in the most natural way +he took up the little bottle of sauce as though casually and began to +read the label: + +“Perrins, Lea & Perrins. I wonder if this might be a relation of that +Lord Perrins, who baffled the two bearded friars?” + +Inebriated by the seductions of the fish the Major’s eyes lit up +coveteously, greedy for a spicy tale: + +“Two bearded friars and a Lord! The story must be A-1! Fire away, +Chipmunk.” + +And chewing mechanically he became absorbed in the fatal story. + +The anecdote ran on insidiously in a natural strain, told with a +master’s art, firm and sure, with strategic progression, showing real +genius, until it nearly reached the climax. Around about this point the +entanglement so held the attention of the poor old man that he remained +motionless, with lips parted and an olive, stuck on his fork in mid +air. A half smile,--a detained smile, the spark of laughter which is +the preparation for a peal of laughter, lit up his face. + +Pontes hesitated. He foresaw the break of the artery. Conscience +cramped his tongue, but only for an instant. Pontes let conscience +quiet down again and pulled the trigger. + +For the first time in his life Major Antonio Pereira da Silva Bentes +broke into a hearty peal of laughter; frank, resounding,--which could +be heard all down the street; a peal of laughter equal to that of +Teufelsdröckh before John Paul Richter. The first and the last, because +in the midst of it his astonished guests saw him fall face-downwards +over his plate, while at the same time a gush of blood reddened the +table-cloth. + +The assassin rose hallucinated and making the most of the confusion, +slipped out onto the street, a modern Cain. He hid himself at home, +locked in his room, his teeth chattering the night through, in a cold +sweat. The least noise filled him with terror: was it the Police? + +Weeks later he began to get over that soul-fright which everyone +attributed to sorrow over the death of his friend. Notwithstanding, he +had ever before his eyes the same sight: the old man fallen over his +plate, spurting blood while the echo of his last peal of laughter still +rang in the air. + +While in this deplorable condition, Pontes received a letter from the +relative in Rio. Among other things the holder of the trump card wrote: +“Since you did not advise me in time, as per our agreement, I learned +of Bentes death only through the newspapers; I looked up the Minister +but it was too late, the appointment of his successor had already been +signed. Your frivolousness has lost you the best chance of your life. +Remember this for your future guidance: _tarde venientibus ossa_, +and be smarter in the future.” + +A month later they found him hanging from a beam in his room with his +tongue lolling, his body rigid. + +He had hung himself by a leg of his drawers. + +When the news got about town everyone found it amusing. The Portuguese +grocer commented thus to the cashiers: + +“What a fellow! Even on his dying day he cracks a joke! Hung himself by +a drawers leg! Only Pontes would remember to do that.” + +And they repeated in chorus a series of “Ha! has!!” ... the only +epitaph given him by man. + + + + + THE PLANTATION BUYER + + +No worse farm existed than that of Espigão. It had already ruined three +owners, which made superstitious people say: “The thing’s a white +elephant!” The last holder, a certain David Moreira de Souza, acquired +it at auction, convinced that it was a great bargain; but there he was, +too, head over ears in debt, scratching his head disconsolately.... + +The coffee plantations stripped every other year, lashed by hail or +blackened by frost, never yielded enough of a crop to fill a deposit. + +The overgrown pastures were full of white-ant heaps intertwined with +choking weeds, teeming with ticks; any ox turned loose there soon +became thin, with its ribs showing, full of parasites, pitifully sorry +and sore. + +The underbrush that had taken the place of the native forest, revealed +by the indiscreet presence of the brambles, the poorest kind of dry +soil. On such soil the manioc shyly put forth little knotted branches; +the large species of sugar-cane took on the aspect of the most slender +kind and these in turn became similar to little bamboos that passed +through the grinding cylinders untouched. + +The horses were full of lice. The pigs that escaped the plague never +got beyond the Pharaonic thinness of Egyptian cows. + +On every side the cutting-ant reigned supreme, day and night busily +mowing down the grass of the pastures, so that in October the sky would +be darkened by clouds of winged ants, male and female, frolicking about +in their love-making. + +Unopened roads, fallen fences, laborer’s dwellings full of leaks, +with shaky roofs, foretelling ugly ruins. Even in the manor-house, +everything indicated approaching ruin; plastering falling, floors +worm-eaten; paneless windows; rickety furniture; bulging walls ... was +there anything whole to be found there? + +Within this tumble-down setting, the planter, grown old under the +burden of long disillusionment, and besides, gnawed by the voracious +interest, without hope and without remedy, a hundred times a day +scratched the cow-lick of hair on his grey head. + +His wife, poor Dona Izaura, having lost her autumnal strength, gathered +upon her face all the freckles and crows-feet invented by the years, +hand in hand with a hard-working life. + +Zico the eldest child had turned out a good-for-nothing, fond of rising +at ten, plastering his hair until eleven and spending the rest of his +time in unlucky flirtations. + +Aside from this vagabond, there was Zilda, then about seventeen, a +pretty girl, but more sentimental than was reasonable and good for her +parents’ peace of mind. The girl spent her time reading love stories +and building castles in Spain.... + +There was only one way out of such a situation: sell the darned +_fazenda_, to be able to breathe free from mortgages. It was +difficult, however, at a time when coffee sold at five _mil réis_ +the _arroba_;[5] it was hard to lay one’s hands on a fool of the +dimensions required. Attracted by clever advertisements, some buyers +found their way to Espigão, but turned up their noses, swearing at the +useless journey and making no offer. + +“It would be dear as a gift!” they would murmur to themselves. + +Moreira’s cow-lick, after repeated scratching, yielded a mystifying +plan: to place along the edge of the thickets and one or other openings +accessible to visitors, plants of good standard woods, transplanted +from the neighboring forests. The lunatic did so and even more: stuck +into a hollow a tree of _Pau d’aiho_, imported from São Paulo’s +rich red soil and fertilized the coffee plants on the edge of the path +just enough to conceal the poverty of the rest. Wherever the sun’s rays +disclosed more clearly the poorness of the soil, there the hallucinated +old man covered it over with rich sifted earth.... + +One day he received a letter from his business agent announcing a new +buyer. “Handle your man carefully,” he advised, “know how to work the +game and you have him. His name is Pedro Trancoso, very wealthy, very +young, very loquacious, and he wants a fazenda for pleasure. It all +depends upon tricking him with the ability of a cunning dealer.” + +Moreira prepared himself for the task. In the first place he warned +the laborers to be on their guard, careful in what they should say. +Instructed by their master, the men answered to the queries of the +visitors with consummate cunning, so as to transform into marvels the +evils of the place. + +Buyers are accustomed to interrogate unexpectedly, being suspicious +of the information given by the proprietors. Therefore, if +this happened--and it always happened, because Moreira was the +personification of the contriver of chance situations,--there occurred +dialogues such as these: + +“Is there much frost about here?” + +“Very little, and that only in bad years.” + +“Do beans grow well here?” + +“Holy Mother! This very year I planted five measures and harvested +fifty _alqueires_. And what beans!” + +“Do the cattle have ticks?” + +“Why, no! only one or another here and there. For raising, none better. +No weeds or wild beans. The trouble is, the master has no strength. If +he had the means this would become a fine fazenda!” + +Having warned the informants, that night the preparation for receiving +their guest was discussed, all happy with the renewal of their lost +hopes. + +“I bet that this time the thing goes!” said the vagabond son and +declared that for his part he needed three _contos_ to set himself +up in business. + +“What kind of business?” asked the father astonished. + +“A grocery store at Volta Redonda....” + +“At Volta Redonda! I was already surprised at a sensible idea in this +crazy head. So as to sell on credit to Tudinha’s people?” + +The lad, though he didn’t blush, kept silent; he had reason to do so. + +The wife wanted a house in town; for a long while she had her eye on a +small dwelling on a certain street, a cheap little house suitable for a +family of moderate means. + +Zilda a piano ... and crates and crates of love stories.... + +They slept happily that night and on the following day they sent early +to the village for dainties to offer to their guest--butter, cheese and +biscuits. There was some hesitation over the butter. + +“That’s not worth while!” objected the wife. “That will cost three +_mil réis_. Far better buy me with that money a piece of unbleached +cotton that I am needing so much.” + +“It is necessary, my dear! Sometimes a trifle helps to get around a man +and facilitates the closing up of business. Butter is grease and grease +makes things slide!” + +The butter won. + +While she awaited the arrival of the ingredients, Dona Izaura fell to +sweeping and cleaning the house and arranging the guest’s room; killed +the least thin of the cockerels and a young lame sucking pig; seasoned +the dough for the pasties and was rolling it out when.... + +“There he comes!” shouted Moreira from the window where he had +posted himself since early morning, nervously scanning the high road +with an old field glass; without leaving his post of observation he +transmitted the details as he saw them to his more than busy wife. + +“He is young ... well dressed ... Panama hat ... looks like Chico +Canhambora....” + +At last the man arrived; dismounted; presented his card: Pedro Trancoso +de Carvalhaes Fagundes. A finer young fellow and of pleasanter speech +had never landed at Espigão. + +He began relating all sorts of things with the ease of a man who is as +much at home in the world as in his own house in pyjamas--the journey, +incidents connected with it; a marmosette he had seen hanging from a +branch. + +As soon as they had entered the waiting room Zico glued his ear to the +keyhole, from there whispering to the women busily setting the table +all he could catch of the conversation. Suddenly he squeaked to his +sister with a suggestive grimace: + +“He’s a bachelor, Zilda!” + +The girl dropped the cutlery as though unintentionally and disappeared. +Half an hour later she appeared, decked out in her best dress and with +two little round red roses painted on her cheeks. + +Anyone entering the oratory of the fazenda at that moment would note +the absence of several petals of the red tissue paper roses that +adorned the image of Saint Anthony and a little candle lighted at the +feet of the image. In the country, rouge and marriages spring from the +oratory.... + +Trancoso was delivering a dissertation upon various agricultural +themes. + +“The ‘_canastrão_’? Piffle!! A backward breed and very rank. My +favorite is the Poland China. The Large Black is also good. But the +Poland! What precocity! What a breed!” + +Moreira, terribly ignorant on the subject, knowing only the famished +skinny ones without name or breed, that grunted in his own pastures, +unconsciously opened his mouth in astonishment. + +“As far as bovine cattle is concerned,” continued Trancoso, “I think +that all of them from Barreto to Prado are entirely wrong. Completely +wrong, I say. There should be no selection or inter-breeding. I advise +the immediate adoption of the finer breeds; the Polled Angus and the +Red Lincoln. We have no pastures? We’ll make them. We’ll plant alfalfa. +Make hay, ensilage. Assis confessed to me once....” + +Assis! the highest authorities on agriculture confessed to that man! He +was intimate with them all--Prado, Barreto, Cotrim ... and Ministers! +“Now, I told Bezerra....” + +Never was that house honored with a more distinguished gentleman, so +well connected and so widely traveled. + +He spoke of the Argentine and Chicago like someone who had just come +from there. Marvelous! + +Moreira’s mouth opened and had almost reached the last degree of +aperture allowed by the jaws, when a woman’s voice announced breakfast. + +Introductions. Zilda was the recipient of phrases never before dreamed +of, which made her heart leap for joy. So were the stewed chicken, the +pork and beans, the pasties and even the drinking water. + +“In town, Mr. Moreira, water like this, pure as crystal, absolutely +drinkable is worth the best of wines. Happy are those who can drink it!” + +The family looked at each other: they never imagined that they owned +such a precious thing, and each one involuntarily took a little swallow +of it as though acquainting themselves with it at that moment for the +first time. Zico even smacked his lips. + +Dona Izaura could not contain herself with delight. The compliments to +her cooking captivated the good lady; she would have considered herself +well paid for the hard work with half that praise. + +“Learn, Zico,” she whispered to her son, “that’s what a gentleman +should be!” + +After coffee, hailed with the word “delicious!” Moreira invited the +young man for a turn on horseback. + +“Impossible, my friend, I do not ride after meals; it gives me +cephalalgy.” + +Zilda blushed. Zilda always blushed when she did not understand a word. + +“We will go this afternoon, I am in no hurry. Now I prefer a short walk +through the orchard to aid the digestion.” + +While the two men went slowly in that direction, Zilda and Zico flew +for the dictionary. + +“It isn’t among the S’s,” said the youth. + +“Look for it with a C,” suggested the girl. + +After some trouble they found the word. + +“Headache! Well, I never! Just that....” + +In the afternoon on the ride, Trancoso admired and praised all that he +saw, to the astonishment of the planter, who, for the first time, heard +his belongings praised. + +Usually buyers run down everything, looking only for faults; they begin +to exclaim about the dangers of loose soil as soon as they come across +a crumbling bank; they find the water scarce and bad; and if they see +an ox they glue their eyes on the parasites. + +Not Trancoso! He only praised! As Moreira, when they passed the +counterfeited places, pointed to the standards with trembling finger, +the young man exclaimed in astonishment: + +“_Caquéra!_ Why this is wonderful!” + +At sight of the _Pau d’Alho_, his amazement reached its height: + +“What I see is marvelous! I never expected to see even a vestige +of such a tree in these parts,” he said slipping a leaf into his +pocketbook as a souvenir. + +In the house he unbosomed himself to the old lady: + +“Well, madam, the quality of the soil is far beyond my expectations. +Even _Pau d’Alho_! It is really astonishing!” + +Dona Izaura lowered her eyes. + +The scene occurred on the veranda. + +Night had fallen. + +A night humming with the chirp of crickets, the croaks of frogs, +numberless stars in the sky and endless peace on earth. + +Trancoso, stretched out on a lounging-chair, transformed the torpor of +digestion into poetic lassitude. + +“How charming is the chirp of the crickets! I adore starry nights, the +rustic life of the country, so healthy and happy!...” + +“But it is very lonely....” ventured Zilda. + +“Do you think so! Do you prefer the strident song of the cicada tuning +up in the bright sunshine?” said he in a mellifluous voice. “Then it +must be that some shadow darkens your little heart.” + +Moreira seeing that sentimentalism was coming into play and in this way +liable to lead to matrimonial consequences, slapped his forehead and +cried out: “The devil! If I wasn’t forgetting all about....” He fled +precipitately, leaving the two alone. + +The dialogue continued, all honey and roses. + +“You are a poet!” exclaimed Zilda at one of his sweetest warblings. + +“Who would not be, beneath the stars of the heavens and beside a star +of the earth?” + +“Poor me!” sighed the girl, her heart beating fast. + +From Trancoso’s heart also rose a sigh. He lifted his eyes to a cloud +that took the place of the Milky Way in the sky and he murmured a +soliloquy strong enough to bring a girl to terms: + +“Love! ... the Milky Way of Life! The perfume of roses, the veil of +dawn! To love, and listen to the stars.... Love, for only he who loves +can understand what they say!” + +It was sour contraband wine; but to the girl’s inexperienced palate it +tasted like Lachryma Christi. Zilda felt the fumes go to her head. She +wanted to reciprocate. She searched the rhetorical nosegays of her mind +so as to cull the most beautiful flower and found only a humble jasmine. + +“What a beautiful thought for a postal-card!” she said. + +They did not go beyond the jasmine; coffee and fried cakes interrupted +the budding idyl. + +What a night! One would say the angel of happiness had spread his +golden wings over that lonely house. Zilda saw all the love tales she +had ever devoured come true. Dona Izaura enjoyed the hope of marrying +her off wealthy. Moreira dreamed of settling debts with a big surplus +tinkling in his pockets. And Zico, transformed in his imagination into +a grocer, the whole night in dreams sold on credit to Tudinha’s people, +who, finally charmed by so much kindness, gave him the daughter’s much +desired hand. + +Only Trancoso slept the sleep of the just; dreamless and undisturbed by +nightmares. How good it is to be rich! + +The next day he went over the remainder of the fazenda, +coffee-plantations and pastures; examined the live-stock and +out-buildings; and as the amiable young man continued to be charmed, +Moreira, who the night before had decided to ask forty contos for +Espigão, thought it wise to raise the price. After the scene of the +_Pau d’Alho_, in his mind he raised it to forty-five; after the +examination of the live-stock it had already risen to sixty. And thus +when the great question was broached, the old man declared courageously +in the firm voice of an _alea jacta_: + +“Seventy-five!” and waited standing for the storm to burst. + +Trancoso, however, found the price reasonable. + +“Well, it is not expensive, the price is more moderate than I expected.” + +The old man bit his lips and tried to retract. + +“Seventy-five, yes, but ... not including the cattle!...” + +“That’s fair,” answered Trancoso. + +“... also not including the pigs!” + +“Exactly.” + +“... and the furniture!” + +“Naturally.” + +The planter choked; there was nothing more to exclude; he confessed to +himself that he was an ass. Why had he not said eighty right off? + +The wife informed of the case, called him a fool. + +“But, woman, at forty it was already a good business!” + +“For eighty it would have been doubly good. Don’t excuse yourself. I +never saw a Moreira who was not slow and stupid. It’s in the blood. You +are not to blame.” + +They sulked for a while but the eagerness to build air-castles with the +unexpected pile of money swept the cloud far away. + +Zico took advantage of the favorable occasion to insist upon the three +contos for setting up the business and was promised them. + +Dona Izaura no longer wanted the little cottage. Now she remembered a +larger one on a street where processions passed--Eusebio Leite’s house. + +“But that one is worth twelve contos,” warned the husband. + +“But it is far better than that shanty. Very well arranged. Only I +don’t like the windowless room near the pantry; it’s too dark.” + +“We could put in a sky-light.” + +“The yard, too, needs to be made over; instead of the chicken +enclosure....” + +Until far into the night, while sleep did not come, they remodeled the +house, transforming it into the loveliest dwelling in town. The couple +were giving the last touches, and beginning to get sleepy when Zico +knocked at the door. + +“Three contos are not enough, father, I need five. There are the +arrangements that I had not thought of, the license and the rental and +other little things....” + +Between two yawns the father generously granted six. + +And Zilda? She floated along on the high seas of a fairy tale. + +Let her float on. + +Finally the day arrived for the amiable buyer to leave. Trancoso bid +goodbye. He was sorry that he could not extend the delightful stay, but +important affairs called him back. A rich man’s life is not as easy as +it seems.... As to the business, it was all but closed; he would give a +definite answer within the week. + +Trancoso left carrying a parcel of eggs,--he had highly appreciated a +breed of chickens raised there; and a little bag of yams,--a dainty of +which he was very fond. + +He also took with him a fine present, Moreira’s sorrel, the best horse +on the farm. He had praised the animal so much during his rides that +the planter had been obliged to refuse an exchange proposed and make +him a present of it. + +“Just see!” said Moreira, voicing the general opinion. “Young, very +rich, straight as can be, learned as a doctor and, nevertheless, +amiable, polite, incapable of turning up his nose at things like the +idiots who have come here. That’s a gentleman for you!” + +The old lady was specially pleased at the young man’s lack of ceremony. +To take away eggs and yams! How nice of him! + +They all agreed with her, each one praising him in his or her way. And +thus, even absent, the amiable and wealthy youth was the talk of the +household during the entire week. + +The week passed, however, without the arrival of the much desired +answer. And still another, and yet another. Moreira wrote him, already +apprehensive; no answer. He remembered a friend who lived in the same +town and sent him a letter asking him to obtain a definite decision +from the capitalist. Regarding the price, he would lower it somewhat. +He would sell the fazenda for fifty-five, fifty, or even forty, +including live-stock and furniture. + +His friend answered without delay. Upon opening the envelope the four +hearts of the Espigão fazenda beat violently: that paper held the +destiny of all four. + +The letter read as follows: “Dear Moreira: Either I am very much +mistaken or you are laboring under an illusion. There is no wealthy +Trancoso Carvalhaes about here. There is little Trancoso, son of Nhá +Béva, commonly called Rag-Picker. He is a swindler and lives off +crooked deals and knows how to fool those who are not acquainted with +him. Latterly he has travelled over the State of Minas, from fazenda +to fazenda under divers pretexts. Sometimes he pretends to be a buyer +and spends a week in the planter’s house, boring him with rides through +the plantations and inspections of boundaries; eats and drinks of the +best that’s to be had; flirts with the servant-girls or the daughter +of the house or anyone he comes across, and at the best stage of the +game, beats it. He has done this a hundred times, always choosing +another neighbourhood. The rascal likes to change his diet! As the only +Trancoso here is this one I shall not present your proposal to the +rogue. Think of the Rag-Picker buying a farm!...” + +Moreira dropped into a chair stupefied, with the letter on his knee. +Then the blood rose to his face and his eyes flashed. + +The hope of the household fell with a crash, accompanied by the girl’s +tears, the old lady’s anger and the rage of the men. Zico proposed +leaving immediately on the track of the bandit, so as to smash his face +for him. + +“Let it be, boy. The world rolls on. Some day I will run across him and +square accounts with this thief.” + +Poor castles! There is nothing sadder than the sudden tumbling down +of illusions. The beautiful castles in Spain erected during a month +with the wonderful pile of money turned into dingy ruins. Dona Izaura +bewailed her cakes, her butter and chickens. As for Zilda, the disaster +had the effect of an icy blast across a tender flower in bloom. She +took to her bed in a fever. Her face became hollow. All the tragic +episodes in the novels she had read fled through her memory; she saw +in herself the victim of them all. And for days contemplated suicide. +Finally she became used to the idea and continued to live. Thus she +verified the fact that folks die of love only in fiction.... + +The story ends here--for the audience; for the gallery it still goes on +a bit. The audience is accustomed to simulate some fine habits of good +taste and tone, which are very laughable; it enters the theatre after +the play has begun, and leaves when the epilogue has hardly commenced. +Now the galleries want the whole thing so as to have their full money’s +worth to the last penny. In the novels and stories they ask insistently +for all the details of the plot and if the author, led by the teaching +of his school, presents them with the half-finished sentence which he +calls the impressionable note, at the most exciting point, they turn +up their noses. They want to know and they are perfectly right, if +So-and-so died, if the girl married happily, if the man finally sold +the fazenda. To whom and for how much. + +Healthy, human and highly respectable curiosity! + +“Did poor Moreira sell the fazenda?” + +I am sorry to say that he did not! And he did not sell it due to the +most unconceivable of all the misunderstandings invented in the world +by the devil,--yes, because besides the devil, who would be capable of +tangling up the threads of the skein with such loops and knots just +when the piece of crochet is about to be finished? + +Chance conferred upon Trancoso fifty contos in the lottery. Don’t +laugh. Why wouldn’t Trancoso be the chosen one if chance is blind and +he had the ticket in his pocket? He won the fifty contos which to a +poor beggar of that sort signified great wealth. + +Once in possession of the pile of money, after weeks of dizziness he +decided to buy a fazenda. He wanted to stop up people’s mouths doing +something that had never entered his head: buy a plantation. + +He passed in review all those that he had visited during the vagabond +years, leaning finally towards the Espigão fazenda. Contributing to +this were the memory of the girl, the old lady’s cakes and the idea of +giving over the administration of the fazenda to his father-in-law in +such a way as to leave him free to loaf, gently basking in Zilda’s love +and the culinary perfections of his mother-in-law. + +Therefore he wrote to Moreira announcing his return in order to close +the deal. + +Alas! when said letter reached the Espigão fazenda there were roars of +anger mingled with howls of vengeance. + +“Now’s our chance!” said the old man. “The rascal liked the fun and +wants to repeat the dose; but this time I’ll fix you, see if I don’t!” +he ended rubbing his hands together in anticipation of revenge. + +In pale Zilda’s sinking heart, however, there flashed a ray of hope. +The sombre night of her soul was lighted up by the moon-beam of a “who +knows?” However, she did not dare to face her father’s and brother’s +anger, for both had agreed upon a tremendous settling of accounts. She +pinned her faith on a miracle and lit another little candle to Saint +Anthony.... + +The great day arrived. Trancoso entered the fazenda dancing up on the +sorrel. Moreira went down to meet him below with his hands behind his +back. Even before reining up his horse, the amiable rogue had already +begun to exclaim: + +“How do you do, my dear Moreira! At last the great day has arrived. +This time I’ve come to buy the fazenda.” + +Moreira shook. He waited until the scoundrel had dismounted and hardly +had Trancoso thrown aside the reins and turned towards him with open +arms, all smiles, when the old man drew a whip from under his coat and +belaboured him with the fury of a wild boar. + +“You want a plantation, you great scoundrel! Take that and that, you +thief!” and slash, slash, the whip fell in strong and angry strokes. + +The poor fellow, dazed by the unexpected attack, fled to the horse and +mounted blindly, while Zico, the aggrieved all-but-brother-in-law, fell +upon him with another shower of whaling across his back. + +Dona Izaura set the dogs on him: + +“Catch him, Brinquinho! Hold tight, Joli!” + +The unfortunate plantation-buyer, pursued like a fox on a run, spurred +his horse and flew, followed by a hail of insults and stones. As he +passed out of the gate he still managed to hear in the midst of the +yelling, the insults of the old woman: + +“You cake eater! You butter swallower! Take that, and you’ll never try +it again, you robber of eggs and yams!” + +And Zilda? + +Back of the window-pane, her eyes swollen from crying, the sorrowful +girl saw disappear forever, wrapped in a cloud of dust, the gentle +knight of her golden dreams. + +Unlucky Moreira thus lost on that day, the only chance Fortune had +given him in his life to make a profitable deal: getting rid at a +single stroke of his daughter and the Espigão fazenda.... + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 1: The translations are by a woman friend of Lobato’s, +resident in Brazil. + +A more extended account of Senhor Lobato may be found in my +_Brazilian Literature_, pages 277 to 291. (New York, 1922).] + +[Footnote 2: Supposed to be the windiest day of the year.] + +[Footnote 3: A _mil réis_ is about 25 cents at par.] + +[Footnote 4: An arroba equals 32 pounds.] + +[Footnote 5: I. e. About 25 cents per 32 pounds.] + + + + + =TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES= + +Simple typographical errors have been silently corrected; unbalanced +quotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and +otherwise left unbalanced. + +Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were +made consistent when a predominant preference was found in the original +book; otherwise they were not changed. + +In page 14, one real for nine yards means 20 réis for 180 yards or +about 166 metres--330 metres would be 40 réis and not 60 réis as +stated by the author. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78403 *** |