Quincas Borba (Library of Latin America) by Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis Page A

worst. Here we have our hero like someone who, after sailing close to shore over the years, finds himself one day in the midst of the high seas. Luckily, fear is also an officer with ideas and it gave him one then: flatter the man. He didn’t waste any time in finding him amusing and interesting and telling him that he had a house on Botafogo beach, number such–and–such, that was open to him. It would be a great honor to have him for a friend. He didn’t have many friends here: Palha, to whom he owed many favors; Dona Sofia, who was a lady of rare prudence; and three or four other people. He lived alone. He might even be going back to Minas.
    “Soon?”
    “I can’t say soon, but it might not be too long from now. You know, for a person who’s lived all his life in a place it’s hard to get used to another.”
    “That depends.”
    “Yes, that depends … But it’s the general rule.”
    “It may be the general rule, but you’re going to be the exception.The capital is a devilish place. You catch a passion for it the way you catch a cold. One breath of air and you’re lost. Look, I’ll bet that within six months you’ll be married …”
    “He didn’t see anything,” Rubião thought.
    And then, merrily:
    “It could be, but marriages take place in Minas, too. And there’s no lack of priests there.”
    “Father Mendes is lacking,” the major put in, laughing.
    Rubião smiled weakly, not knowing whether the major’s words were innocent or malicious. The latter was the one who took up the reins of the conversation and steered it onto other matters: the weather, the city, the cabinet, the war and Marshal López. * And just note the contrast in the occasion. That torrential rain, heavier than the one at the beginning, was like a ray of sunshine for our Rubião. Behold his soul flapping the dust off its wings to the heat of the major’s endless discourse, injecting a small word here and there if he could and always nodding with applause. And he was thinking once more, “No, he hadn’t seen anything.”
    “Papa! Papa, are you there?” a voice said at the door to the garden.
    It was Dona Tonica. She’d come to fetch him so they could leave. Tea was on the table, it was true, but she couldn’t stay any longer; she had a headache, she told her father in a low voice. Then she held out her fingers to Rubião. The latter asked her to wait just a few minutes more, the distinguished major …
    “You’re wasting your time,” the major interrupted. “She’s the one who governs me.”
    Rubião offered him his hospitality again. He even demanded that they set a date that very week, but the major was quick to say that he couldn’t promise a specific day. He would come as soon as it was possible. His life was quite busy. He had duties at the arsenal, a lot of them, and besides that…
    “Papa! Let’s go!”
    “I’m coming. See? I can’t stop and chat for even a minute. Did you say goodbye already? Where’s my hat?”
    * Francisco Solano Lopez (1826–1870), dictator of Paraguay during the 1865-1870 war with Brazil, Argentina, and Uruguay. [Ed.]

XLIII
     
    O n the way down Dona Tonica went along listening to the remainder of her father’s discourse as he changed subjects without changing style—diffuse and digressive. She was listening without understanding. She went along all wrapped up in herself, absorbed, putting the night through the mill again, recomposing the looks between Sofia and Rubião.
    They reached their home on the Rua do Senado. The father went to bed, but the daughter didn’t lie down right away, sitting up in a small chair beside her dressing table, where she had an image of the Virgin. She wasn’t carrying any ideas of peace and innocence. Without having known love, she knew what adultery was, and the persona of Sofia seemed rotten to her. She saw a monster in her now, half–human, half–snake, and she felt that she hated her, that she was capable of getting her revenge by telling