me. I made that reflection to myself and finished closing the trunk.
“Isn’t the Little Master going to visit Missy Dona Eusébia?” Prudêncio asked me. “She was the one who dressed the body of my departed mistress.”
I remembered that I’d seen her among other ladies on the occasion of the death and the burial. I didn’t know, however, that she’d lent my mother that final kindness. The houseboy’s reflection was reasonable. I owed her a visit. I decided to do it at once and then leave.
XXVI
The Author Hesitates
Suddenly I heard a voice. “Hello, my boy, this is no life for you!” It was my father, who was corning with two proposals in his pocket. I sat down on the trunk and welcomed him without any fuss. He stood looking at me for a few moments and then extended his hand in an emotional gesture.
“My son, make adjustment to the will of God.”
“I’ve already adjusted,” was my answer, and I kissed his hand.
He hadn’t had lunch. We lunched together. Neither of us mentioned the sad reason for my withdrawal. Only once did we talk about it, in passing, when my father brought the conversation around to the Regency, It was then that he mentioned the letter of condolence that one of the Regents had sent him. He had the letter with him, already rather wrinkled, perhaps from having been read to so many other people. I think he said it was one of the Regents. He read it to me twice.
“I’ve already gone to thank him for that mark of consideration,” my father said, “and I think you should go, too …”
“I?”
“You. He’s an important man. He takes the place of the Emperor these days. Besides, I’ve brought an idea with me, a plan, or … yes, I’ll tell you everything. I’ve got two plans: a position as deputy and a marriage.”
My father said that slowly, pausing, and not in the same tone of voice but giving the words a form and placement with an end to digging them deeper into my spirit. The proposals, however, went so much against my latest feelings that I really didn’t get to understand them, My father didn’t flag and he repeated them, stressing the position and the bride.
“Do you accept?”
“I don’t understand politics,” I said after an instant. “As for the bride …, let me live like the bear I am.”
“But bears get married,” he replied.
“Then bring me a she-bear. How about the Ursa Major?” My father laughed and after laughing went back to speaking seriously. A political career was essential for me, he said, for twenty or more reasons, which he put forth with singular volubility, illustrating them with examples of people we knew. As for the bride, all I had to do was see her. If I saw her, I would immediately go ask her father for her hand, immediately, without waiting a single day. In that way first he tried fascination, then persuasion, then intimation. I gave no answer, sharpening the tip of a toothpick or making little balls of bread crumbs, smiling or reflecting. And, to say it outright, neither docile nor rebellious concerning the proposals. I felt confused. One part of me said yes, that a beautiful wife and a political position were possessions worthy of appreciation. Another said no, and my mother’s death appeared to me as an example of the fragility of things, of affections, of family …
“I’m not leaving here without a final answer,” my father said. “Fi-nal an-swer!” he repeated, drumming out the syllables with his finger.
He drank the last drops of his coffee, relaxed, started talking about everything, the senate, the chamber, the Regency, the restoration, Evaristo, a coach he intended to buy, our house in Matacavalos … I remained at a corner of the table writing crazily on a piece of paper with the stub of a pencil. I was tracing a word, a phrase, a line of poetry, a nose, a triangle, and I kept repeating them over and over, without any order, at random, like this:
All of it mechanically and, nonetheless, there was a
“Isn’t the Little Master going to visit Missy Dona Eusébia?” Prudêncio asked me. “She was the one who dressed the body of my departed mistress.”
I remembered that I’d seen her among other ladies on the occasion of the death and the burial. I didn’t know, however, that she’d lent my mother that final kindness. The houseboy’s reflection was reasonable. I owed her a visit. I decided to do it at once and then leave.
XXVI
The Author Hesitates
Suddenly I heard a voice. “Hello, my boy, this is no life for you!” It was my father, who was corning with two proposals in his pocket. I sat down on the trunk and welcomed him without any fuss. He stood looking at me for a few moments and then extended his hand in an emotional gesture.
“My son, make adjustment to the will of God.”
“I’ve already adjusted,” was my answer, and I kissed his hand.
He hadn’t had lunch. We lunched together. Neither of us mentioned the sad reason for my withdrawal. Only once did we talk about it, in passing, when my father brought the conversation around to the Regency, It was then that he mentioned the letter of condolence that one of the Regents had sent him. He had the letter with him, already rather wrinkled, perhaps from having been read to so many other people. I think he said it was one of the Regents. He read it to me twice.
“I’ve already gone to thank him for that mark of consideration,” my father said, “and I think you should go, too …”
“I?”
“You. He’s an important man. He takes the place of the Emperor these days. Besides, I’ve brought an idea with me, a plan, or … yes, I’ll tell you everything. I’ve got two plans: a position as deputy and a marriage.”
My father said that slowly, pausing, and not in the same tone of voice but giving the words a form and placement with an end to digging them deeper into my spirit. The proposals, however, went so much against my latest feelings that I really didn’t get to understand them, My father didn’t flag and he repeated them, stressing the position and the bride.
“Do you accept?”
“I don’t understand politics,” I said after an instant. “As for the bride …, let me live like the bear I am.”
“But bears get married,” he replied.
“Then bring me a she-bear. How about the Ursa Major?” My father laughed and after laughing went back to speaking seriously. A political career was essential for me, he said, for twenty or more reasons, which he put forth with singular volubility, illustrating them with examples of people we knew. As for the bride, all I had to do was see her. If I saw her, I would immediately go ask her father for her hand, immediately, without waiting a single day. In that way first he tried fascination, then persuasion, then intimation. I gave no answer, sharpening the tip of a toothpick or making little balls of bread crumbs, smiling or reflecting. And, to say it outright, neither docile nor rebellious concerning the proposals. I felt confused. One part of me said yes, that a beautiful wife and a political position were possessions worthy of appreciation. Another said no, and my mother’s death appeared to me as an example of the fragility of things, of affections, of family …
“I’m not leaving here without a final answer,” my father said. “Fi-nal an-swer!” he repeated, drumming out the syllables with his finger.
He drank the last drops of his coffee, relaxed, started talking about everything, the senate, the chamber, the Regency, the restoration, Evaristo, a coach he intended to buy, our house in Matacavalos … I remained at a corner of the table writing crazily on a piece of paper with the stub of a pencil. I was tracing a word, a phrase, a line of poetry, a nose, a triangle, and I kept repeating them over and over, without any order, at random, like this:
All of it mechanically and, nonetheless, there was a
Similar Books
