Dom Casmurro

1991

1

THE TITLE

One evening on my way home to Engenho Novo from town I met a young fellow on the Central Line train. He lived in the neighbourhood, and I knew him vaguely by sight. He greeted me, sat down beside me, talked about one thing and another and ended up reciting poetry. The journey was short, and his verses may not have been altogether bad. But it happened that I was tired, and I dozed off once or twice, causing him to break off his reading and put his verses back in his pocket.

‘Don’t stop,’ I said, waking up.

‘I’ve finished,’ he muttered.

‘They’re very good.’

I saw him make as if to take them from his pocket again, but it was only a gesture; he was offended. Next day he began calling me names and finished up nicknaming me ‘Lord Taciturn’. The neighbours, who don’t like my quiet retiring habits, seized upon the nickname, which finally stuck. Not that this worried me. I told the story to some friends in town, and for fun they began calling me that, too, some even in letters: ‘Lord Taciturn, I’m coming to dine with you on Sunday.’ ‘I’m going to Petropolis, Lord Taciturn; that same house in Renânia. Drag yourself from that den of yours in Engenho Novo and come and spend a fortnight with me.’ ‘My dear Lord Taciturn, don’t think I’m letting you off the theatre tomorrow. Come and spend the night in town. I’ll provide the box, tea and a bed; the only thing I can’t provide is feminine company.’

Don’t bother to look it up in the dictionary. ‘Taciturn’ is used in the most usual sense of a man who says little and keeps to himself. ‘Lord’ is ironic, to endow me with aristocratic airs. All because I happened to doze off! Anyway I couldn’t find a better title for my story, and if I can’t think of one before the end of the book I’ll keep to this. My poet on the train will know that I bear him no ill will. And with a little imagination, since the title is his, he may come to think the book is his, too. There are books that owe no more to their authors; others even less.

2

THE BOOK

Now that I have explained the title I will pass on to writing the book. First, however, let me outline the motives that led me to take up my pen.

I live on my own, with one servant. The house where I live is my own property, and I had it built for a very special reason, which I hesitate to admit, but no matter. One day, many years ago, I had the idea of building in Engenho Novo an exact replica of the house where I was brought up in the old Rua de Matacavalos, having the same design and appearance as the first one, which has now been demolished. The builder and decorator fully understood my instructions, so it is virtually the same two-storeyed house, with three front windows, a veranda at the back and identical bedrooms and other rooms. In the main room the decoration on the ceiling and walls is more or less the same, with here and there huge birds carrying wreaths of small flowers in their beaks. In the four corners of the ceiling are the figures of the seasons, while in the middle of the walls are painted busts of Caesar, Augustus, Nero and Masinissa, with their names written underneath. Why these four personages I do not know. When we moved to the house in Matacavalos that was how it was decorated, a left-over from the previous decade. It was of course fashionable then to add a classical touch and figures of antiquity to American paintings. All the rest is in the same vein. I have a garden with flowers, vegetables, a forest oak, a well and a wash-house. I use old china and old furniture. Now, as then, there is the same contrast between the calm of my interior life and the bustle of life in general.

It is clear that my purpose was to link together the two ends of my life, to re-create my adolescence in my old age. But it proved impossible to reconstruct what then was or what I was myself. In everything, if the face is the same the appearance is different. If it were just that the others had gone, all well and good; a man soon recovers more or less from their loss. But it is I myself who am lacking, and that loss is fatal. It is a poor comparison, but what remains is like the dye you put on your beard and hair, which merely preserves the outward appearance, as they say at autopsies. The internal parts cannot be dyed. A certificate to say I was twenty years old might, like all false documents, fool a stranger but not me. The few friends I have are of recent date; all the others have departed to study geology in heavenly fields. As for women friends, some are of fifteen years’ standing, others of less, and almost all assert their youth, two or three even convincingly. But the language they speak obliges me to consult the dictionary so frequently as to become tiresome.

However, if life has changed, that is not to say it is worse. It is different. In certain aspects my former life appears bare of many charms I thought it had, while it is also true that it has lost many of those thorns that made it irksome. Yet I am not without tender, beguiling memories. To be honest I don’t go out much, and I converse even less. I have few pastimes. Most of my time I spend in my orchard, gardening and reading. I eat well and don’t sleep badly.

But everything palls after a while, and this monotony ended up by wearying me. I needed variety and thought of writing a book. Jurisprudence, philosophy and politics came to mind but were not sufficiently appealing. Then I thought of writing History of the Suburbs, less dull than Father Luis Gonçalves dos Santos’s memoirs of the city. But, though an unassuming work, it would require research into documents and dates, a lengthy and boring process. At that point the busts on the walls spoke up saying that if they hadn’t been able to re-create times past for me I should take up my pen and do so in writing. Perhaps the narration would evoke the illusion, summoning forth those shades, as once happened to the poet, not him of the train, but of Faust: ‘Come ye again, restless shades?’

I was so delighted with this idea that even now my pen trembles in my hand. Yes, Nero, Augustus, Masinissa and you great Caesar, who urge me to write these memoirs, I am grateful for your advice and shall put on paper all my recollections as they come flooding back. In this manner I shall live again what I lived then and turn my hand to a work of greater import. So, then, let us begin with a celebrated November afternoon that I have never forgotten. I have had many others, both better and worse, but that one has never been erased from my memory. Read on, and you will understand what I mean.

3

THE ACCUSATION

I was about to enter the living-room when I heard my name mentioned and hid behind the door. The house was the one in Matacavalos, the month was November and the year somewhat remote, but I don’t intend to change the dates of my life just to please those who don’t like old stories; the year was 1857.

‘Dona Glória, are you still intending to send our Bentinho to the seminary? It’s high time he went, and now there may be a problem.’

‘Problem? What problem?’

‘A difficult problem.’

My mother wanted to know what it was. José Dias, after a few moments’ consideration, came to see if there was anyone in the corridor. Not noticing me, he returned and, lowering his voice, said that the problem was in the house next door: the Páduas.

‘The Páduas?’

‘I’ve been meaning to tell you this for some time, but hardly dared. It doesn’t seem right to me that our Bentinho should be hiding away in corners with the Tortoise’s daughter. That’s the problem, because if they start flirting seriously you’ll have a difficult job separating them.’

‘I don’t believe it. Hiding away in corners?’

‘In a manner of speaking. Secretly. Always together. Bentinho is never out of their house. The girl is a scatterbrain. The father pretends not to notice, probably hoping things will turn out so that … I understand your reaction. You don’t believe people can be so calculating, thinking that everyone is as well-meaning and honest …’

‘But, Senhor José Dias, I’ve seen the two playing together and noticed nothing whatever suspicious. Think of their age: Bentinho is barely fifteen, and Capitu was fourteen only last week. They are only children. Don’t forget they have been brought up together ever since that great flood in which the Pádua family lost so much. That was when we got to know each other. And now you expect me to believe … What do you think, Brother Cosme?’

Uncle Cosme replied with a ‘Hum’, which translated into ordinary language might mean ‘José Dias is imagining things. The kids enjoy themselves. I enjoy myself. Where’s the backgammon?’

‘Yes, I think you must be mistaken.’

‘It’s possible. I hope you are right. Believe me, I would not have spoken without giving the matter the most careful thought …’

‘In any case, it’s time he went,’ interrupted my mother. ‘I’ll see about sending him to the seminary right away.’

‘Well, as long as you haven’t given up the idea of making a priest of him, that’s the main thing. Bentinho must do as his mother wishes. And then the Brazilian Church has a great destiny. We must not forget that a bishop presided over the Constituent Assembly and that Father Feijó governed the empire …’

‘Governed my foot!’ put in Uncle Cosme, giving way to old political rancour.

‘Pardon me, doctor. I’m not defending anyone, merely stating facts. What I want to say is that the clergy still has an important role to play in Brazil.’

‘What you want is a good drubbing. Come on, go and fetch the backgammon. As for the boy, it would be better if he didn’t start saying mass behind doors. But look here, Sister Glória, does he really have to be a priest?’

‘It’s a promise and has to be kept.’

‘I know you made a promise. But a promise like that … I don’t know … I think if we considered it carefully … What do you think, Cousin Justina?’

‘Me?’

‘The truth is that each one knows what is best for himself,’ went on Uncle Cosme. ‘Only God knows what is best for everyone. But a promise made so many years ago …What’s this, Sister Glória? Are you crying? Come now. Is this a matter for tears?’

My mother blew her nose without answering. I think Cousin Justina got up and went to her. There was a long silence, and I was just about to enter the room, but something held me back, a stronger feeling … I couldn’t catch the words that Uncle Cosme suddenly spoke. Cousin Justina was pleading, ‘Cousin Glória! Cousin Glória!’ José Dias was apologizing. ‘If I had known I wouldn’t have spoken – but I did so out of respect, out of esteem, out of affection, to fulfil a duty, the bitterest of duties.’

4

THE BITTEREST OF DUTIES

José Dias loved superlatives. They served to give grandiosity to his ideas and, when these were lacking, to prolong his sentences. He got up to fetch the backgammon, which was in another room. I hugged the wall and saw him pass by in his starched white trousers, with straps, waistcoat and high collar. He was one of the last to use trouser straps in Rio de Janeiro, perhaps in the world, and he always wore his trousers short so that they could be stretched tight. His black satin tie had a steel hoop inside which immobilized his neck, as was then the fashion. His cotton waistcoat, lightweight for indoor wear, on him seemed to be ceremonial dress. He was thin, frail and balding and must have been about fifty-two years old. He moved with his usual leisurely gait, not in a lethargic or lazy manner but measured and calculated like a syllogism: the premise before the consequence, the consequence before the conclusion. The bitterest of duties!

5

THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY

He did not always walk with that stiff, languid gait; he could also be lively in his gestures, swift and active in his movements. Moreover, there were times when he had a full-throated laugh, such a spontaneous, infectious laugh that it seemed his cheeks, his teeth, his face, his whole being, all the world, were laughing through him. But when he was serious he was gravity itself.

He had been one of the family for many years; my father was still at the old fazenda at Itaguai, and I had just been born. He appeared there one day claiming to be a homoeopathic doctor, with a manual and portable dispensary. At that time there were many people down with the fever. José Dias cured the overseer and a slave, refusing to accept any payment. So my father proposed he should remain there, living with us and receiving a small salary. José Dias refused, declaring it was his duty to bring health to the poor man’s hut.

‘What’s to stop you travelling? Go where you like, but live here with us.’

‘I’ll be back in three months.’

He returned after two weeks, accepting board and lodging but no remuneration other than what was given him at festivals. When my father was elected deputy and came to Rio de Janeiro with the family, he came, too, and was given his own room at the bottom of the yard. One day, when the fever made its appearance again in Itaguai, my father told him to go there and attend to the slaves. José Dias said nothing for a few moments; finally, with a sigh, he confessed that he was not a doctor. He had assumed the title to help spread the new methods but had not done so without very considerable study. However, his conscience would not allow him to accept more patients.

‘But you cured them before.’

‘Perhaps I did, though it would be truer to say it was the medicines prescribed in the books. Those are what did it – those and the grace of God. I was a charlatan … There’s no denying it. My motives may have been worthy – they were: homoeopathy is truth, and to serve the truth I lied. But the time has come to put matters straight.’

He was not dismissed, as he requested at the time; my father could not do without him. He had the knack of ingratiating himself and becoming indispensable; to lose him would be like losing one of the family. When my father died his grief knew no bounds – so they told me; I myself have no recollection. My mother was extremely grateful and would not allow him to give up his room in the garden. After the seventh-day mass he came to take his leave of her.

‘Stay with us, José Dias.’

‘As you wish, senhora.’

There was a small legacy for him in the will, a bequest and a few words of appreciation. He copied out the words, framed them and hung them in his room over the bed. ‘That is the finest bequest,’ he said once. As time passed he acquired a certain authority in the family or at least a certain influence, which he never abused, giving his views with proper submission. In short, he was a friend; I will not say the best, since not everything in this world is of the best. Nor must you think him servile; his acts of courtesy were more the result of policy than habit. His clothes lasted him a long time: unlike people who soon wear out their new garments, his old clothes were always neat and well pressed, buttoned up and in good repair with the humble elegance of the poor. He was well read, though haphazardly, but sufficiently so to entertain us of an evening and over dessert or to explain some phenomenon or discourse on the ill effects of heat and cold, the poles or Robespierre. He often talked about a visit he once made to Europe, admitting that had it not been for us he would have returned there by now. He had friends in Lisbon, but our family, he declared, was first and foremost to him, excepting only God.

‘Excepting or including?’ asked Uncle Cosme one day.

‘Excepting,’ repeated José Dias, reverently.

And my mother, who was very religious, was pleased to see that he placed God in His due position and gave a smile of approval. José Dias thanked her with a motion of his head. From time to time my mother would give him some pocket money. Uncle Cosme, who was a lawyer, gave him his documents to copy.

6

UNCLE COSME

Uncle Cosme had lived with my mother ever since she became a widow. He was widowed himself, as was Cousin Justina. It was the house of the three widows.

Fortune frequently gives way before nature. Though apparently destined to the serene life of a capitalist, Uncle Cosme never grew rich in the law courts: what he earned he spent. His office was in the former Rua das Violas, near to the courts, which were in the now-extinct Aljube. He worked in criminal law. José Dias never missed one of Uncle Cosme’s speeches for the defence, and it was he who helped him on and off with his gown, with profuse compliments at the end. He recounted the debates at home, and Uncle Cosme, despite his pretence of modesty, would give a satisfied smile.

He was fat and heavy, short of breath and with sleepy eyes. One of my oldest memories was seeing him every morning mount the mule given him by my mother, which took him to the office. The black man who fetched it from the stable would hold the reins while he lifted his foot and placed it in the stirrup. This would be followed by a minute’s rest or reflection. Then he would give an upward thrust; at the first one his body threatened to rise but didn’t; a second thrust produced an identical result. Then, after a long pause, Uncle Cosme exerted all his strength, both physical and moral, finally launched himself from the earth and this time landed in the saddle. The mule rarely failed to behave as if all the weight of the world had landed on its back. Uncle Cosme adjusted his carcass, and the mule trotted off.

Nor have I ever forgotten what he did to me one afternoon. Though I was born on the farm (having left there when I was two), and in spite of the custom in those days, I did not know how to ride and was afraid of horses. Uncle Cosme picked me up and sat me astride the mule. When I found myself up there (I was nine years old) alone and unassisted, the ground so far below, I began to scream frantically, ‘Mamma! Mamma!’ Pale and trembling, she came running up, imagining that someone was killing me. She lifted me down and comforted me, while her brother said, ‘Sister Glória, can a great lad like him be afraid of a tame mule?’

‘He’s not used to it.’

‘Then he’d better get used to it. He may well be a priest, but if he gets a country parish he’ll have to ride a horse. And even here, though he’s not yet a priest, if he wants to cut a figure like the other lads and doesn’t know how to ride, he’ll have good cause to complain of you, Sister Glória.’

‘Let him complain if he wants to. I’m scared.’

‘Scared! I like that. Scared!’

If the truth be known it was only later that I learned how to ride and then less out of a wish to do so than from shame at saying I didn’t know how. When I started having lessons people said, ‘Now he’ll really be off after the girls.’ They wouldn’t say the same of Uncle Cosme. With him it was a matter of habit and necessity. Love affairs no longer interested him, though it is said that as a young man he won the hearts of many ladies and was an outspoken party man. But with the passage of the years he lost his sexual and political ardour, and his corpulence effectively put an end to any social or political ambitions. Nowadays he merely performed his duties, leading a loveless life. His leisure hours he spent observing others or playing cards. From time to time he would crack a joke.

7

DONA GLÓRIA

My mother was a good soul. When her husband, Pedro de Albuquerque Santiago, died she was thirty-one years old and could have returned to Itaguai. But she did not want to, preferring to remain near the church where my father was buried. She sold the fazenda and the slaves and bought others whom she put to work or hired out, as well as a dozen houses and a quantity of shares, and settled down in the house in Matacavalos where she had lived for the last two years of her married life. She was the daughter of a lady from Minas, who was herself descended from a Paulista family, the Fernandes.

Now, in that year of grace 1857, Dona Maria da Glória Fernandes Santiago was forty-two years old. She was still young and pretty but insisted on concealing those relics of her youth despite all nature’s efforts to preserve them from the ravages of time. She wore an eternal plain dark dress, with a black shawl folded in a triangle and fastened at the breast with a cameo brooch. Her close-plaited hair was gathered at the neck and held by an old tortoiseshell comb, and occasionally she wore a white, frilled bonnet. Thus attired, and in her flat, soft leather shoes, she bustled about supervising the activities of the entire house from morning till night.

Over there on the wall I have a portrait of her beside her husband, just as they were in the other house. The painting is now very dark but still gives a good idea of them both. I remember nothing about him except vaguely that he was tall and had long hair. In the portrait he has round eyes, which used to follow me everywhere, an effect that terrified me as a child. His neck emerges from a voluminous black tie, and his face is clean-shaven except for a small area by the ears. The image of my mother shows that she was beautiful – she was then twenty years old. She is holding a flower in her fingers and is apparently