The Looking-Glass by Machado De Assis

Author:Machado De Assis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Steerforth Press
Published: 2022-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER III

GOD KNOWS WHAT HE IS DOING!

This es teemed lady, after two months, thought herself the most wretched of women; she fell into a deep melancholy, she turned yellow, thin, eating little and sighing wherever she went. She dared not make any complaint or reproach, for she respected him as her husband and her lord, but she suffered silently, and withered visibly away. One day, at dinner, when her husband asked what ailed her, she replied sadly that it was nothing; then she dared a little further and was about to say that she felt as much a widow as she had before. And she added:

“Who would ever have thought that half a dozen lunatics …”

She did not complete her sentence; she finally raised her eyes to the ceiling – those eyes that were her most engaging feature: black, large eyes, bathed in a humid light, like those of the dawn. As for the action, it was the same that she had employed on the day Simão Bacamarte requested her hand in marriage. The town chronicles do not report whether D. Evarista wielded that weapon with the perverse intention of decapitating science once and for all, or, at least, chopping off its hands; but the conjecture is a plausible one. In any case, the alienist ascribed no other intention to her. And the great man was not irritated, not even slightly vexed. The metal of his eyes continued to be the same metal, hard, smooth, eternal, and not the least crease broke the surface of that forehead as becalmed as the waters of the bay at Botafogo. Perhaps a smile unclenched his lips, between which filtered these words as smooth as the ointments from the Song of Songs:

“I give my consent for you to take a trip to Rio de Janeiro.”

D. Evarista felt the floor disappear beneath her feet. Never ever had she seen Rio de Janeiro, which, while it was not even a shadow of what it is today, was nonetheless somewhat more than Itaguaí. Seeing Rio de Janeiro, for her, was equivalent to the dream of the Hebrew slave. Now, especially, that her husband had settled for good into that village in the interior, now she had lost any remaining hope of breathing the airs of our fine city; and it was just now that he should invite her to make the dreams of her childhood and youth a reality. D. Evarista was unable to disguise her delight at such a proposal. Simão Bacamarte took her hand and smiled – a smile that was somewhat philosophical, as well as conjugal, which seemed a translation of this thought:

“There is no sure remedy for the pains of the soul; this lady is withering away, because she believes I do not love her; I shall give her Rio de Janeiro, and she will be consoled.” And because he was a scholarly man, he took a note of this observation.

Another dart pierced D. Evarista’s breast. She restrained herself, however, and merely said

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