The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas by Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis

Author:Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis [Machado de Assis, Joaquim Maria]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2020-06-02T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER LXV

EYES AND EARS

We were interrupted by the sound of a coach on the grounds. A slave came to say that it was Baroness X.

Virgília consulted me with her eyes.

“If you’ve got such a terrible headache,” I said, “it would seem best not to receive her.”

“Has she already gotten out?” Virgília asked the slave.

“Yes, and she says she needs to speak to Missus right away!”

“Well, let her in.”

The baroness came in shortly. I don’t know if she expected to find me in the drawing room; but it would be impossible to have made a greater fuss.

“A sight for sore eyes!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been hiding? Why, just last night I was surprised not to see you at the theater. Candiani was delightful. What a woman! Do you like her? Of course you do. You men are all the same. The baron was just saying last night in our box that one Italian woman is worth five Brazilians. What cheek! And from an old man, which is worse. But why weren’t you there last night?”

“A headache.”

“Nonsense! Some rendezvous; don’t you think, Virgília? Well, hurry up, my friend, because you must be forty . . . or near that . . . Aren’t you forty?”

“I can’t say for certain,” I responded, “but if you’ll allow me, I’ll go consult my baptismal certificate.”

“Go on . . .” she said, holding out a hand. “When shall we see you? On Saturday we’ll be in; the baron has missed you so . . .”

As I stepped out onto the street, I regretted having left. The baroness was one of the people who most suspected us. She was fifty-five but looked forty, with a soft figure, an easy smile, vestiges of beauty, an elegant bearing, and fine manners. She didn’t speak often, nor did she say very much at all. She possessed that great talent for listening to others, keeping watch over them; she would recline in her chair, unsheathe a long, sharpened gaze, and let herself be. Others, not knowing what she was, would speak, look, and gesticulate, and all the while she would simply watch, motionless at times, lively at others, guileful enough as to cast her eyes down and let her lids fall; but with her eyelashes as a lattice, the gaze kept up its work, raking through the souls and lives of others.

The second person was a relative of Virgília’s, Viegas, a withered, yellow relic some seventy winters old who suffered from a stubborn rheumatism, a no less stubborn asthma, and a damaged heart; he was a walking infirmary. His eyes, however, radiated life and health. During the first weeks, Virgília had no fear of him; she said that when Viegas seemed to fix a person with a prying gaze, he was just counting money to himself. Indeed, he was a great miser.

And then there was Virgília’s cousin, Luís Dutra, whom I now took to disarming by way of speaking of his verses and prose and introducing him to those in my circle.

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