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Ernesto has a troubled romance with Rosina, marked by comings and goings in love. When he discovers that she also has a second suitor, the two indignant rivals join forces to unmask her. The story, with Machado de Assis characteristic irony, reveals the game of appearances and manipulations in the love relationships of Rio's elite.
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Ernesto has a troubled romance with Rosina, marked by comings and goings in love. When he discovers that she also has a second suitor, the two indignant rivals join forces to unmask her. The story, with Machado de Assis characteristic irony, reveals the game of appearances and manipulations in the love relationships of Rio's elite.
Irony, Appearances, Manipulation
This text is a work in the public domain and reflects the norms, values and perspectives of its time. Some readers may find parts of this content offensive or disturbing, given the evolution in social norms and in our collective understanding of issues of equality, human rights and mutual respect. We ask readers to approach this material with an understanding of the historical era in which it was written, recognizing that it may contain language, ideas or descriptions that are incompatible with today's ethical and moral standards.
Names from foreign languages will be preserved in their original form, with no translation.
That young man standing there in Rua Nova do Conde, on the corner of Campo da Aclamação, at ten o'clock at night, is no thief, he's not even a philosopher. He looks mysterious, it's true; from time to time, he puts his hand to his chest, slaps his thigh, or throws away a cigar he's just started. He wasn't a philosopher. Neither was he a sneak: if someone happened to pass by on the same side, the shadowy figure moved away cautiously, as if afraid of being known.
Every ten minutes, he walks up the street to the point where it angles with Rua do Areal, then back down ten minutes later, only to go up and down, down and up again, with no other result than to increase the anger that murmurs in his heart by five percent.
Anyone who saw him making these ups and downs, tapping his leg, lighting and putting out cigars, and had no other explanation, would plausibly assume that the man was mad or close to it. No, sir; Ernesto So-and-So (I'm not allowed to say his full name) is simply in love with a girl who lives in that street; he's choleric because he hasn't received a reply to the letter he sent her that morning.
It's worth mentioning that two days earlier there had been a bit of a row. Ernesto had broken his boyfriend's protest that he would never write to her again by sending her an incendiary four-lined letter that morning, with lots of admiring signs and various punctuation liberties. The letter went out, but no reply came.
Every time our boyfriend went down or up the street, he would stop in front of a two-story house where people were dancing to the sound of a piano. That was where the lady of his thoughts lived. But he stopped in vain; neither did she appear at the window, nor did the letter reach his hands.
Ernesto would bite his lip to keep from letting out a cry of despair and would go to the next corner to vent his rage.
“But what's the explanation for this,” he said to himself, “why doesn't she just throw the paper at me from the window? It's nothing to do with her; she's all caught up in her dancing, maybe her flirting, she doesn't remember that I'm here in the street, when I could be there...”
At this point, the boyfriend fell silent, and instead of the gesture of despair he should have made, he just let out a long, hurt sigh. The explanation for this sigh, unthinkable in a man who is bursting with anger, is a bit delicate to say in round letters. But come on; either nothing will be said, or everything will be said.
Ernesto was at the house of Mr. Vieira, Rosina's uncle, which is his girlfriend's name. He used to go there often, and it was there that he got together with her two days before this Saturday in October 1850, when the event I'm telling you about took place. Now, why isn't Ernesto among the gentlemen dancing or having tea? The day before, when Mr. Vieira met Ernesto, he told him that he was giving a little party the next day to celebrate I don't know what family event.
"I've sorted it out this morning,” he concluded, “I've only invited a few people, but I hope the party will be brilliant. I was going to send you an invitation now, but I think you can spare me?"
"Of course," Ernesto hastened to say, rubbing his hands happily.
"Don't miss it!"
"No, sir!"