The Alienist and Other Stories of Nineteenth-Century Brazil (7 page)

When his listeners regained their senses, the narrator had gone.

CHAPTER ON HATS

In 1883, the year after “The Looking Glass,” Machado published two excellent stories in which women are central characters. “
Capítulo dos chapeus
,” which takes its title from a play by Moliere, is told as a mock epic: “Sing, Muse!” Rather than epic heroism, however, the story involves a domestic spat. Though he often wrote for women, Machado de Assis wasn’t a feminist, and we are invited to laugh here at the expense of the story’s female protagonists, Mariana and Sophia. But even Machado’s flawed characters, which includes about all of them, usually manage to be sympathetic to some degree. This story is lighthearted satire rather than deadly irony. In it, we see the world of women of the elite class whom a gentleman might invite to drop by the Chamber of Deputies. Like Gonçalves and his student friends, they go to see and be seen on Ouvidor Street, but only during the day. As respectable ladies, they could never be out at night without a male escort. They rule over homes in comfortable residential neighborhoods (served by streetcars) and over domestic slaves, who appear in this story hardly at all. Their lives are consumed by an annual round of elite activities: attending operas, horse races, and fancy balls, going to spend the hottest months of the year in Petrópolis, the mountain resort city not far from Rio de Janeiro, where Pedro II built a summer palace. Welcome to their world.

M
use, sing of the annoyance of Mariana, wife of the right honorable Conrado Seabra, on that April morning in 1879. What was the cause of all the fuss? Just a hat! Lightweight, rather natty, not an elegant, top hat …

Conrado, a lawyer with an office on Quitanda Street, wore it every day on his way downtown and to court hearings, as well. He only didn’t wear it to formal receptions, the opera, funerals, and other such ceremonious occasions. Otherwise, he had worn it constantly for the last five or six years, the entire length of his marriage. Then, on that particular April morning, having finished his breakfast, Conrado began to roll himself a cigarette, and Mariana announced with a smile that she had a small request.

“What is it, my angel?”

“Could you do something for me, make a sacrifice on my behalf?”

“One sacrifice? Why … ten or twenty!”

“Then don’t wear that hat anymore to go downtown.”

“Why? Is it hideous?”

“I’m not saying it’s hideous. It’s a hat for around the neighborhood, a hat to wear in the afternoon or at night. But downtown? For a lawyer? I can’t see it.”

“That’s just silly, dear.”

“Okay, but will you do it as a favor to me?”

Conrado struck a match, lit his cigarette, and made a humorous gesture, preparing to change the subject. But his wife insisted, and her insistence, which had been gentle and imploring, turned suddenly rough and imperious. Conrado was shocked. He knew his wife, who was ordinarily a passive creature, soft and tender, of great plasticity. She could wear a royal diadem or a common scarf with the same, blissful indifference. The proof was that, after her footloose and fancy-free last two unmarried years, the wedding had made her a homebody. She rarely went out, did so only at the urging of her consort, and always seemed happiest at home. Curtains, furnishings, and beautiful objects made up for the absence of children; she loved them like a mother. To see the curtains creased just so, each piece of furniture in its place, produced visceral pleasure in Mariana. Of the three windows that looked onto the street, for example, one was always precisely half open, and always the same one. Not even her husband’s study escaped her need for reliable regularity. If he happened to straighten his books, she might intervene to restore disorder. Her mental habits displayed the same monotonous uniformity. Mariana read the same books over and over, all standard fare for a proper young Brazilian lady: Joaquim Macedo’s
Moreninha
, seven times; Sir Walter Scott’s
Ivanhoe
, ten times; Madame Craven’s
Mot de l’énigme
, eleven times.
¹

In other words, how to explain her sudden desire to change his hat? The night before, while her husband attended a meeting of the bar association, Mariana’s father had visited his daughter. He was a good old man, lean and slow moving, a retired career bureaucrat nostalgic for the days when government offices were full of men in long tailcoats. A tailcoat was what he still wore to funerals decades later, and not, as one might expect, because of the solemnity of death or the gravity of the last farewell, but simply because he had the habit of doing so. He gave the same reason for dining daily at two o’clock in the afternoon and for twenty other precisely repeated customs. He was so rigid about his habits that he dined at two even on his daughter’s wedding anniversary, when, every year, he was invited to a six-o’clock dinner at her house. He sat at her table, on those days, and watched everyone else eat, although afterward he did usually accept a bite of dessert, a glass of wine, and some coffee. That was Conrado’s father-in-law. How, indeed, could he approve of his son-in-law’s failure to wear a top hat downtown? He couldn’t; he endured the natty little hat silently, at best, in recognition of Conrado’s fine qualities. He endured it until he happened to see it one day, on a downtown street, conversing with the elegant top hats of several distinguished gentlemen, and he found it disgraceful. That evening, going to Mariana’s house and finding his son-in-law out, he opened his heart. The little hat was an abomination, and it must be banished forever.

Conrado did not know about these origins of the request. In view of his wife’s well-known docility and his own authoritarian inclinations, he couldn’t understand her stubbornness, and it annoyed him profoundly. He contained himself, even so, preferring to make fun of her request. He spoke with such irony and disdain that the poor woman felt humiliated. Twice, Mariana tried to rise from the table, so Conrado held her there, the first time with a light grip around her wrist, the second time with his domineering gaze. And with a smile, he said:

“Look, dear, I have a philosophical reason not to do what you ask. I’ve never told you about this, and now I’m going to confide in you totally.”

Mariana bit her lip and said nothing more. She picked up a table knife and began idly to tap the table, just to do something, but her husband did not permit even that. Gently, he took the knife from her hand and continued:

“Choosing a hat is not as random a thing as you may suppose. To the contrary, the choice is governed by metaphysical principles. He who chooses a hat does not exercise his free will. An obscure determinism is at work. Hat buyers cherish the illusion of free will, and hat sellers who watch a customer try on thirty or forty hats without buying any likewise imagine free will to be at work. But, no, there is a metaphysical principle involved: The hat completes the man; it is an extension of his being, decreed for all eternity. Changing a hat is an act of mutilation. Oddly, this principle has so far remained unremarked. Wise men have studied everything from the stars to earthworms—Laplace with his
Mécanique Céleste
, for example, or Darwin with his book
On the Formation of Vegetable Mould through the Action of Worms
—you haven’t read Laplace? And yet no one has thought to examine a hat exhaustively from all angles. No one has noticed the metaphysics of hats. I may write a study of the matter myself. Now, though, it’s a quarter to ten o’clock. You can reflect on what I’ve said. Who knows? It may be, in fact, that the man completes the hat, rather than vice versa …”

Mariana finally managed to get up and leave the table. She had understood nothing but his sarcastic tone, and inside she was weeping with humiliation. Her husband went upstairs to dress and came back down a few minutes later to stand in front of her with the famous hat on his head. Mariana found it disgraceful, just as her father had said, vulgar and disgraceful. Conrado took his leave with considerable ceremony and went out.

The lady’s irritation had lessened somewhat, but the taste of humiliation remained in her mouth. Mariana did not clamor and cry as she had expected to do, however. She reviewed the situation to herself, remembering Conrado’s sarcasm and the simplicity of her request, which might be a little demanding, she recognized, but which hardly justified such rude behavior. She paced back and forth restlessly. She went into the front room and looked from the half-opened window at her husband standing on the street below, waiting for the streetcar, his back to the house, the eternal, disgraceful little hat on his head. Mariana was overcome by hatred of the ridiculous little thing. How had she stood it for so many years? She considered all those years, how docile she had been, consenting always to her husband’s desires and whims, and she asked herself if that weren’t precisely the cause of his behavior that morning. She was a patsy, a pushover. If she had done the same as countless other wives—Clara and Sophia, for example—who treated their husbands as husbands
should
be treated … well, she would not have suffered the man’s sarcasm that morning, not by half. One thought led to another, and she decided to go out. She dressed and went to visit Sophia, a friend from school, just for a breath of fresh air, not intending to tell her anything.

Sophia was thirty, two years older than Mariana. She was tall, strong, and very self-possessed. She received her friend with the usual fuss, and in view of the other’s silence, easily guessed that something was wrong. Goodbye to Mariana’s resolve to say nothing. At the end of twenty minutes, she had aired the entire matter. Sophia laughed and shook her by the shoulders. She told her that it wasn’t her husband’s fault.

“Oh, it’s
my
fault,” agreed Mariana.

“Don’t be a patsy, dear. You’ve been too soft with him. Be strong for once. Don’t pay any attention to his little fit. Give him the silent treatment, and when he tries to make up with you, tell him to lose the hat first.”

“Such a trivial thing …”

“Give him your little finger and he’ll take your whole hand, dear. Of course, he will. They all do it. Look at that ninny Beatriz. Didn’t she let her husband pack her off to their estate in the country because he noticed an Englishman riding by their house every afternoon, hoping to see her at the window? Poor Englishman! Why pick a fight over him? I’ll bet he didn’t even notice she was gone! One can live happily with one’s husband, with mutual respect, I do believe, without fighting or despotism. I get along very well with my Ricardo, very harmoniously. He does whatever I ask immediately, even if he doesn’t want to. One frown from me, and he obeys immediately. He wouldn’t give me trouble over a mere hat, that’s certain, no way in the world. Don’t even think about it, I’d say, and he’d get a new one, like it or not.”

Mariana listened enviously to her friend’s fine description of conjugal bliss. With the trumpets of Eve’s rebellion against Adam sounding in the background, Sophia’s example gave her an itch for independence, a wish to exercise her will. To complete the situation, although Sophia was self-possessed, one could say, others aspired to possess her, as well. She had eyes especially for all English aspirants, whether on horseback or afoot. She was an honest woman, but a flirt; it’s a rude term, but there’s no time to invent a more delicate one. Sophia flirted left and right. It was her nature, and she had done so out of habit since girlhood. What she gave out to all the poor fellows who knocked at her door was the small change of love: a nickel here, a nickel there, never a five-milréis bill, much less larger denominations. On the day in question, Sophia’s charitable urges led her to propose a stroll downtown to visit a few shops and, who knows, look at a few hats. Mariana accepted the proposal. A little demon inside her was huffing and puffing at the fires of vengeance. In addition, her friend, who held a certain fascination for Mariana, did not give her time to think. She accepted; why not? She was sick and tired of being shut in, she wanted to live a little.

Sophia went to dress while Mariana stayed in the sitting room, restless and pleased with herself. She thought of the coming week and scheduled her activities day by day, hour by hour. She stood up, sat down, stood up, and went to the window, waiting impatiently.

“Is Sophia sewing a new dress?” she asked herself from time to time.

During one of her trips to the window she saw a young man pass on horseback. He wasn’t English, but he reminded her of Beatriz, whose husband had packed her off to the country to escape an Englishman, and Mariana felt a growing hatred of all men—except, possibly, for young men on horseback. This one was too full of himself, however. He stuck his legs out in the stirrups to show off his boots, and he rode with his hand on his waist like a fashion figurine. Still, his hat compensated for those two defects. It was a little hat, but it went well with his riding costume. It wasn’t on the head of a lawyer on his way to the office.

She heard her friend’s heels slowly descending the stairs. “Ready,” said Sophia, coming into the room. She really was pretty: tall, as we already know, with a splendid hat and a devilish black silk dress that showed off the swell of her bust. Beside her friend, the figure of Mariana disappeared somewhat. Looking at her carefully, one could see that Mariana had beautiful eyes, attractive features, and a lot of natural elegance. But glancing at the two women together, all one saw was Sophia. Sophia was conscious of her superiority, I should add, and for that very reason she chose friends like Mariana. If that is a character flaw, it’s not my job to disguise it.

“Where shall we go?” asked Mariana.

“What a question! We’re going for a stroll downtown … Let’s see. I need to get my picture taken. Then I need to go by the dentist’s office. No, we’ll go by the dentist’s office first. Do you need to see the dentist?”

“No.”

“Or to have your picture taken?”

“I’ve got lots of pictures. And what
for
, anyway? To give to What’s-his-name?”

Sophia could tell that her friend was still smoldering, and on the way downtown she did her best to stoke the flames. Although it wouldn’t be easy, Mariana could still throw off the yoke of tyranny, and Sophia could teach her how. The best way was slowly but surely, without dramatic gestures to alert her adversary. Let him not realize his fate until he felt her boot on his neck. Three or four weeks is all it would take. Sophia was willing to help, and she told Mariana again to be strong for once. She wasn’t anybody’s slave, and so on. The trumpets sounded again in Mariana’s heart.