The Alienist and Other Stories of Nineteenth-Century Brazil by Machado de Assis

one never knows.”

TERPSICHORE
    “ Terpsícore ” (1886), named for the Greek goddess (muse, actually) of dance, is another lighthearted story. This time, however, the protagonists are not of the elite class. Although no physical description of them is given, they may well be partly of African descent, like so many working-class Brazilians then and now. Porfirio is a hardworking tradesman and his wife, Gloria, is a seamstress. Together they earn barely enough to make ends meet. They live in a nice house but struggle to pay the rent. Like many of Machado’s nonelite characters (and some of the elite ones), they are often in debt. Still, if there’s one thing that they wouldn’t think of omitting on certain occasions, it’s a good party. This story illustrates the importance of music and dance in nineteenth-century Brazilian popular culture. And the “polkas” mentioned here would be performed (and danced) in a style called maxixe , with a tropical Brazilian lilt and plenty of movement in the hips. The story also illustrates the social imperative felt by nineteenth-century Brazilians, not just the elite, to mark important social occasions with lavish celebrations.

     
    G loria opened her eyes to find her husband sitting up in bed staring at the wall, and she told him to lie down and sleep or he would be sleepy when he went to the workshop.
    “What do you mean sleep, Gloria? The bells already tolled six o’clock.”
    “Jesús! How long ago?”
    “Just now.”
    Gloria pushed the patchwork quilt off herself, searched for her slippers with her feet, slid them on, and got out of bed. Then, seeing that her husband had remained in the same position, with his head between his knees, she went to him and pulled at his arm, telling him affectionately not to mope, that God would take care of them.
    “Everything will come out all right, Porfirio. Do you think that the landlord is really going to confiscate our things? I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it. He says that to scare us into scraping up the money.
    “Yes, but the fact is that I can’t scrape up six months’ back rent. I don’t even know where to start. Six months’ worth, Gloria! Who’s going to lend us that much money? Your godfather has already said that he won’t give us any more.”
    “I’m going to talk to him.”
    “What for? It’s a waste of time.”
    “I’ll go beg. I’ll go with mother, and both of us will beg …”
    Porfirio shook his head.
    “No, no,” he said. “You know what would be a better idea? Find another place for the time being, until Saturday, and we’ll move there and see how we can pay the rent here. Your godfather could at least undersign a lease for us. To the devil with all these expenses! Bills as far as the eye can see—the corner store, the bakery—the devil take them all! I can’t go on! I spend the whole blasted day with tools in my hands, and still there is never enough money. I can’t go on, Gloria, I can’t go on …”
    Porfirio jumped out of bed and started getting ready for work, as his wife, her face summarily washed, her hair not combed, took care of his breakfast. It was a summary breakfast, too: bread and coffee with milk. Porfirio gulped it down quickly, at the head of the cheap pine table, his wife standing in front of him with a broad smile intended to cheer him up. Gloria’s features were irregular and commonplace, but the smile gave them some charm. It wasn’t her face, anyway, that had made him fall in love with her. It was her body, when he saw her dancing a polka, one evening, on Empress Street. He was passing by and stopped to look in the open window of a house where people were dancing. A number of curious onlookers had gathered in front of the house already. The front room was packed with dancing couples, who, little by little, got tired and left the floor to Gloria.
    “Bravo for the queen!” shouted an enthusiast.
    From the street window, Porfirio nailed her with his