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- Herausgeber: CLXBX
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Memorial de Aires, also known as Counselor Aires' Memorial, is the final novel by Machado de Assis and a luminous conclusion to the career of one of Brazil's greatest literary masters. Written in the form of a reflective diary, this subtle and introspective work offers a deeply human meditation on love, aging, memory, and the quiet ironies of everyday life. Narrated by the observant and cultivated Counselor Aires, a retired diplomat, the novel unfolds through personal journal entries that chronicle the lives of those within his social circle in Rio de Janeiro. With gentle wit and refined detachment, Aires records conversations, social visits, and emotional undercurrents, revealing far more than the surface events suggest. His perspective—worldly, tolerant, and tinged with melancholy—guides readers through a delicate exploration of human relationships. At the heart of the narrative is the widowed couple Fidélia and Tristão, whose evolving bond becomes a focal point of curiosity and speculation within their community. As their relationship develops, Aires observes not only their affection but also the subtle dynamics of expectation, convention, and personal longing that shape their choices. Through these intimate portrayals, Machado examines themes of companionship, second chances, and the quiet resilience of the human heart. Unlike dramatic or plot-driven novels, Memorial de Aires thrives on nuance and psychological depth. Machado's prose is elegant and restrained, infused with irony that is never harsh but always perceptive. Beneath the calm surface of social rituals lies a rich reflection on time's passage and the bittersweet awareness that accompanies later life. This final work stands apart for its serenity and wisdom. It does not seek grand conflict but instead illuminates the beauty found in reflection and understanding. In Counselor Aires, Machado de Assis creates a narrator who embodies maturity and empathy, offering insight into both the follies and the grace of human nature. Poignant, refined, and quietly profound, Memorial de Aires is a masterpiece of subtle storytelling and a fitting farewell from one of literature's most insightful observers of the human condition.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026
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Memorial de Aires
Machado de Assis
Copyright © 2026 by Machado de Assis
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
1888
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
1889
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
1888
Chapter1
Well, it's been a year today since I finally returned from Europe. What reminded me of this date was, while drinking coffee, the cry of a broom and duster vendor: "Brooms for sale! Dusters for sale!" I usually hear it on other mornings, but this time it brought to mind the day of my disembarkation, when I arrived retired in my homeland, in my Catete, in my language. It was the same cry I heard a year ago, in 1887, and perhaps it was the same voice.
During my thirty-odd years in diplomacy, I came to Brazil a few times, on leave. Most of the time I lived abroad, in various places, and it wasn't a short period. I thought I wouldn't get used to this other life here again. But I did. Certainly, I still remember things and people from afar, amusements, landscapes, customs, but I'm not dying of homesickness for anything. Here I am, here I live, here I will die.
Chapter2
I just received a note from my sister Rita, which I've pasted here:
January 9th
"Dude,
It was only now that I remembered that it's been a year since you returned from your retirement in Europe. It's too late to go to the São João Batista cemetery to visit the family tomb and give thanks for your return; I'll go tomorrow morning, and I ask you to wait for me so we can go together. I miss you.
Old sister,
Rita".
I don't see the need for that, but I answered yes.
Chapter3
We went to the cemetery. Rita, despite the joy of the occasion, couldn't hold back a few old tears of longing for her husband, who lies there in the grave with my father and mother. She still loves him now, just as she did the day she lost him, so many years ago. In the coffin, she had a lock of his hair, then black, kept, while the rest of it remained outside, turning white.
Our tomb isn't ugly; it could be a little simpler—an inscription and a cross—but what it has is well done. I found it too new, though. Rita has it washed every month, and this prevents it from aging. Now, I believe that an old tomb gives a better impression of craftsmanship, if it has the dark marks of time, which consumes everything. The opposite always seems like it's from the day before.
Rita prayed before him for a few minutes, while I scanned the nearby graves. Almost all of them bore the same ancient plea as ours: "Pray for him! Pray for her!" Rita told me later, on the way, that it's her custom to heed the requests of others, saying a prayer for all those who are there. Perhaps she's the only one. She's a good person, and no less cheerful.
The impression I got from the cemetery as a whole was the same one I'd always received from others; everything there was still. The gestures of the figures, angels and others, were varied, but motionless. Only a few birds showed signs of life, searching for each other and perching on the branches, chirping or warbling. The bushes remained silent, amidst the greenery and flowers.
As I was nearing the gate, on the way out, I told Sister Rita about a lady I had seen at the foot of another grave, to the left of the wayside cross, while she was praying. She was young, dressed in black, and seemed to be praying too, with her hands crossed and hanging down. Her face wasn't unfamiliar, though I couldn't quite place her. She was beautiful and very kind, as I had heard others say in Rome.
Where is it?
I told her where I was. She wanted to see who it was. Rita, besides being a good person, is curious, though not to the Roman extreme. I told her we should wait right there at the gate.
No! She might not come so soon, let's spy on her from afar. Is she this beautiful?
It seemed so to me.
We went in and made our way through a path between the graves, naturally. After a while, Rita stopped.
— Yes, you know her. You saw her at my house a few days ago.
- Who is it?
— It's Noronha the widow. Let's go before she sees us.
I now vaguely remembered a lady who appeared in Andaraí, whom Rita introduced me to and with whom I spoke for a few minutes.
— Widow of a doctor, isn't she?
That's right; daughter of a farmer from Paraíba do Sul, the Baron of Santa-Pia.
At that moment, the widow uncrossed her hands and gestured to leave. First, she looked around, as if to see if she was alone. Perhaps she wanted to kiss the grave, her husband's name itself, but there were people nearby, not to mention two gravediggers carrying a watering can and a hoe, talking about a funeral that morning. They spoke loudly, and one mocked the other in a gruff voice: "Could you carry one of those to the hill? Only if there were four like you." They were talking about a heavy coffin, naturally, but I quickly turned my attention back to the widow, who was walking away slowly, without looking back. Hidden by a mausoleum, I couldn't see her any better than at first. She went down to the gate, where a tram passed, which she boarded and left. We got off later and came on the next one.
Rita then told me something about the young woman's life and the great happiness she had shared with her husband, who had been buried there more than two years ago. They lived together for a short time. I, I don't know by what evil inspiration, ventured this reflection:
That doesn't mean I won't get married again.
That's not a house.
Who's to say no?
— She won't marry; all you need to know is the circumstances of the marriage, the life they had, and the pain she felt when she was widowed.
— It doesn't mean anything, you can get married; to get married you just have to be a widow.
But I didn't get married.
You are something else, you are unique.
Rita smiled, giving me a disapproving look, and shaking her head as if to call me "rascal." She quickly became serious, because the memory of her husband truly saddened her. I brought up the subject; after accepting a more cheerful line of thought, she invited me to see if the widow Noronha would marry me; she bet she wouldn't.
— At my age of sixty-two?
— Oh! They don't look like it; they have the freshness of thirty-year-olds.
Shortly after, we arrived home and Rita had lunch with me. Before lunch, we talked again about the widow and the marriage, and she repeated the bet. I, remembering Goethe, said to her:
— Sister, are you trying to make a bet with me between God and Mephistopheles? Don't you know what I mean?
- I don't know.
I went to my small bookshelf and took out the volume of Faust, opened it to the prologue in Heaven, and read it aloud, summarizing it as best I could. Rita listened attentively to the challenge between God and the Devil, concerning old Faust, the servant of the Lord, and the inevitable downfall that would make him cunning. Rita lacks formal education, but she is refined, and on that occasion she was primarily hungry. She replied, laughing:
— Let's have lunch. I don't want to hear about these preambles or anything else; I repeat what I said, and you see if you can fix what was undone there. Let's have lunch.
We went to lunch; at two o'clock Rita returned to Andaraí, I came to write this and I'm going for a walk around the city.
Chapter4
In the conversation I had with Rita the day before yesterday, she forgot to mention the part about my wife, who is buried there in Vienna. For the second time, she spoke to me about moving her to our tomb. Again I told her that I would very much like to be near her, but that, in my opinion, the dead are better off where they fall; she replied that they are much better off with their own.
"When I die, I will go to where she is, in the other world, and she will come to meet me," I said.
She smiled and cited the example of the widow Noronha, who had her husband transported from Lisbon, where he died, to Rio de Janeiro, where she plans to end up. She didn't say more on this subject, but she will probably return to it until she achieves what she thinks is right. My brother-in-law used to say that it was her custom when she wanted something.
Another thing I didn't write was the allusion she made to the Aguiar family, a couple I met the last time I came to Rio de Janeiro, with permission, and whom I met again now. They are friends of hers and the widow, and they will be celebrating their silver wedding anniversary in ten or fifteen days. I have already visited them twice, and the husband has visited me. Rita spoke fondly of them and advised me to go and congratulate them on their anniversary celebrations.
— You will find Fidelia there.
— Which Fidelia?
— The widow Noronha.
— Is her name Fidelia?
It's called...
— A name alone isn't enough to prevent marriage.
"So much the better for you, for you will win over the person and the name, and end up marrying the widow. But I repeat, you will not marry her."
Chapter5
The only peculiarity in Fidélia's biography is that her father and father-in-law were political enemies, party leaders in Paraíba do Sul. Family feuds haven't prevented young people from falling in love, but you have to go to Verona or elsewhere. And even those from Verona say, according to commentators, that the families of Romeo and Juliet were once friends and from the same party; they also say that they never existed, except in tradition or only in Shakespeare's mind.
In our municipalities, to the north, south, and center, I believe there is no such thing. Here, the opposition of the shoots continues that of the roots, and each tree sprouts from itself, without sending branches to another, and sterilizing its soil, if it can. If I were capable of hatred, that is how I would hate; but I hate nothing and no one—I forgive everyone, like in the opera.
Now, how they fell in love—those sweethearts from Paraíba do Sul—is what Rita didn't tell me, and it would be interesting to know. Romeo and Juliet here in Rio, between farming and law—because our Romeo's father was a lawyer in the city of Paraíba—is one of those encounters that would be important to know in order to explain. Rita didn't go into those details; if I remember, I'll ask her. Perhaps she'll refuse, imagining that I'm truly beginning to fall madly in love with the lady.
Chapter6
As I was leaving the Banco do Sul, I ran into Aguiar, the manager, who was on his way there. He greeted me very warmly, asked me about Rita, and we talked for a few minutes about general things.
That was yesterday. This morning I received a note from Aguiar, inviting me, on behalf of his wife and himself, to have dinner there on the 24th. It's their silver wedding anniversary. "A simple dinner with a few friends," he wrote. I later learned it's a small, intimate celebration. Rita is going too. I decided to accept, and I'm going.
Chapter7
Three days stuck at home with a cold and a slight fever. Today I'm feeling better, and according to the doctor, I can go out tomorrow; but will I be able to go to the Aguiares' silver wedding anniversary? A cautious professional, Dr. Silva advised me not to go; Sister Rita, who treated me for two days, is of the same opinion. I don't disagree, but if I find myself sprightly and robust, as is possible, it will be difficult for me not to go. We'll see; three days pass quickly.
Chapter8
I spent the day leafing through books, and especially reread some of Shelley and also Thackeray. One consoled me about the other, and the other disillusioned me about the other; that's how ingenuity completes ingenuity, and the mind learns the languages of the mind.
Chapter9
Rita dined with me; I told her I'm as healthy as a pear, and strong enough to go to my silver wedding anniversary. After advising me to be prudent, she agreed that if I have nothing else to eat, and am moderate at dinner, I can go; especially since my eyes will be on a strict diet there.
"I don't think Fidelia will go," he explained.
— You're not going?
— I was with Judge Campos today, who told me that his niece had left him with her usual neuralgia. She suffers from neuralgia. When it appears, it lasts for days, and it doesn't go away without a lot of medicine and a lot of patience. Perhaps I'll visit her tomorrow or the day after.
Rita added that for the Aguiar couple it's a bit of a disaster; they were counting on her as one of the highlights of the party. They love each other very much, they love her, and she loves them, and they all deserve each other, that's Rita's opinion and it may become mine.
— I believe so. And if I don't feel hindered, I'll always go. The Aguiar family also seem like good people to me. They never had children?
— Never. They are very affectionate, Dona Carmo even more so than her husband. You can't imagine how close they are to each other. I don't visit them often because I'm always busy with myself, but the few times I do visit are enough to know their worth, especially her. Judge Campos, who has known them for many years, can tell you what they are like.
Will there be many people at the dinner?
— No; I think very few. Most of the friends will go in the evening. They are modest, the dinner is only for the closest friends, and so the invitation they extended to you shows great personal affection.
— I already felt that when I was introduced to them seven years ago, but then I assumed it was more because of the minister than the man. Now, when they received me, it was with great pleasure. So I'll be there on the 24th, whether Fidélia is there or not.
Chapter10
I went to the silver wedding anniversary party yesterday. Let's see if I can summarize my impressions of the evening now.
They couldn't have been better. The first was the union of the couple. I know it's not safe to judge the moral standing of two people based on a party lasting a few hours. Naturally, the occasion revives memories of times past, and the affection of others seems to double one's own. But that's not it. There's something in them that transcends mere opportunity and is different from the joy of others. I felt that the years had strengthened and refined their nature, and that the two people were, in the end, one and the same. I didn't feel it, I couldn't feel it, as soon as I entered, but it was the whole of the night.
Aguiar came to greet me at the door of the room—I would say with the intention of an embrace, if such a thing were possible between us and in such a place; but his hand did that job, squeezing mine effusively. He is a man of sixty (she is fifty), with a body more full than thin, agile, gentle, and smiling. He led me to his wife, to one side of the room, where she was chatting with two friends. The charm of the good old woman was nothing new to me, but this time the reason for the visit and the nature of my greeting gave her facial expression something that well deserves the description of radiant. She extended her hand to me, listened to me, and inclined her head, glancing at her husband.
I felt like I was the object of their care. Rita arrived shortly after me; other men and women, all known to me, came along, and I saw that they were familiar with the house. In the middle of the conversation, I heard this unexpected word from one woman to another:
— Don't let Fidelia's condition worsen.
"Is she coming?" the other asked.
— He sent word that he was coming; he's feeling better; but it might do him harm.
The rest that the two women said regarding the widow was good. What one of the guests told me was only overheard by me, without paying more attention to it than the subject itself, nor losing any pretense of it. As dinner approached, I assumed Fidélia wouldn't come. I was wrong. Fidélia and her uncle were the last to arrive, but they did arrive. The excitement with which Dona Carmo received her clearly showed her joy at seeing her there, barely convalescing, and despite the risk of her having to return that night. Their pleasure was great.
Fidélia hadn't entirely abandoned mourning; she wore two coral earrings, and the medallion with her husband's portrait on her chest was made of gold. The rest of her dress and adornments were dark. The jewels and a sprig of forget-me-nots at her waist were perhaps in homage to her friend. That morning she had already sent her a congratulatory note along with the small porcelain vase, which was on a piece of furniture with other birthday gifts.
Seeing her now, I found her no less appealing than in the cemetery, and some time ago at Aunt Rita's house, nor any less striking. She seems to have been lathe-turned, without that word implying rigidity; on the contrary, she is flexible. I only want to allude to the correctness of the lines—I speak of the lines seen; the rest can be guessed at and sworn to. She has soft, fair skin, with ruddy tones on her cheeks, which suit her widowhood well. That's what I saw upon arrival, and also her eyes and black hair; the rest came later in the evening, until she was gone. Nothing more was needed to complete an interesting figure in her gestures and conversation. After a few moments of examination, this is what I thought of her. I didn't immediately think in prose, but in verse, and a verse precisely by Shelley, which I had reread days before at home, as mentioned earlier, and taken from one of his stanzas of 1821:
I can give not what men call love.
That's what I said to myself in English, but soon after I repeated the poet's confession in our prose, concluding my composition: "I cannot give what men call love... and that's a pity!"
This confession did not make me any less happy. So, when Dona Carmo came to take my arm, I followed as if I were going to a wedding dinner. Aguiar offered his arm to Fidélia and sat between her and his wife. I write these details with no other need than to say that the two spouses, standing side by side, were flanked by our friend Fidélia and myself. In this way, we could hear both of our hearts beating—a permitted hyperbole to say that in both of us, in me at least, resonated the happiness of those twenty-five years of peace and consolation.
The lady of the house, affable, sweet, delightful to all, seemed truly happy that day; no less so her husband. Perhaps he was even happier than she, but he wouldn't know how to show it so openly. Dona Carmo possesses the gift of speaking and living through all her features, and a power to attract people, as I have seen in few women, or rare ones. Her white hair, gathered with art and taste, gives old age a particular prominence, and makes all ages blend into her. I don't know if I'm explaining myself well, nor is it necessary to say better for the fire into which I will one day throw these pages of solitary writing.
From time to time, she and her husband exchanged glances, and perhaps words as well. Only once was the visual impression melancholic. Later I heard the explanation from Sister Rita. One of the guests—there are always indiscreet ones—alluded in his toast to them to their lack of children, saying "that God had denied them children so that they might love each other better." He didn't speak in verse, but the idea could have been expressed in meter and rhyme, which the author perhaps had cultivated as a young man; he was now nearing fifty, and had one son. Hearing that reference, the two looked at each other sadly, but soon tried to laugh, and smiled. Sister Rita later told me that this was the couple's only wound. I believe Fidélia also perceived the sadness in their expressions, because I saw her lean towards her with a gesture of her glass and toast Dona Carmo with grace and tenderness.
— To your happiness.
Aguiar's wife, deeply moved, could only respond immediately with a gesture; only moments after bringing the glass to her lips did she add, in a somewhat muffled voice, as if it were difficult for her to express these words of gratitude from her heavy heart:
- Thanks.
Everything was whispered, almost silent. The husband accepted his share of the toast, a little more expansive, and the dinner ended without another trace of melancholy.
That night more visitors came; music was played, three or four people played cards. I remained in the room, gazing at that group of cheerful men and young and mature women, all dominated by the particular aspect of Dona Carmo's old age, and by the alluring grace of Fidélia's youth; but the latter's grace still bore the mark of her recent widowhood, indeed of two years. Shelley continued to murmur in my ear for me to repeat to myself: I can give not what men call love.
When I conveyed this impression to Rita, she said that those were excuses from a bad payer, that is, that I, fearing I wouldn't overcome the girl's resistance, considered myself incapable of love. And from there she went on to once again defend Fidélia's conjugal passion.
“Everyone here and from elsewhere who saw them,” she continued, “can tell you what that couple was like. Just know that they got together, as I already told you, against the wishes of both their parents, and cursed by both of them. Dona Carmo has been a confidante of her friend, and she doesn't repeat what she hears out of discretion; she only summarizes what she can, with words of affirmation and admiration. I've heard her many times. Fidélia even tells me something. Talk to your uncle… Look, let him tell you about the Aguiar family too…”
At this point I interrupted:
— From what I hear, while I was out there representing Brazil, Brazil was becoming the bosom of Abraham. You, the Aguiar couple, the Noronha couple, all the couples, in short, were becoming models of perpetual happiness.
— Then ask the judge to tell you everything.
Another impression I take away from this house and this evening is that the two ladies, the married one and the widow, seem to love each other like mother and daughter, isn't that right?
— I think so.
Doesn't the widow have children either?
No, not that either. It's a point of contact.
— There is a turning point; it is Fidelia's widowhood.
— No, that's not it; Fidélia's widowhood is tied to Dona Carmo's old age; but if you think that's a deviation, it's in your hands to correct it, to rescue the widow from widowhood, if you can; but you can't, I repeat.
My sister doesn't usually tell jokes, but when she does, she's quite witty. That's what I told her then, when I put her in the car that took her to Andaraí, while I walked to Catete. She forgot to mention that the Aguiar house is on Flamengo Beach, at the end of a small garden, an old but solid house.
Chapter11
Yesterday I met an old acquaintance from the diplomatic corps and promised to have dinner with him tomorrow in Petrópolis. I'm going up today and returning on Monday. The worst part is that I woke up in a bad mood, and I'd rather stay than go up. And so it may be that the change of scenery and spectacle will alter my mood. Life, especially for the elderly, is a tiring job.
Chapter12
I left Petrópolis today. On Saturday, when the ferry left Prainha, I ran into Judge Campos on board, and it was a pleasant encounter, because soon after my bad mood subsided, and I arrived in Mauá somewhat cured. By the time I reached the Petrópolis station, I was fully recovered.
I don't recall if I've already written in this memoir that Campos was my classmate in São Paulo. With time and absence, we lost our intimacy, and when we saw each other again last year, despite the scholastic memories that arose between us, we were strangers. We saw each other a few times, and spent a night in Flamengo; but the differences in life had helped time and absence.
Now on the boat we were able to better rekindle old ties. The journey by sea and land was more than enough to revive some of our school days. It was quite a lot; we ended up feeling refreshed from old age.
As we climbed the mountain, our impressions diverged somewhat. Campos found great pleasure in the train journey we were making. I confessed to him that I had enjoyed it more when I traveled there in horse-drawn carriages, one behind the other, not because of the vehicle itself, but because I could see, in the distance, down below, the sea and the city gradually appearing with so many picturesque aspects. The train takes people rushing, hurriedly, desperately, all the way to the Petrópolis station itself. And I remembered the stops, here to drink coffee, there to drink water at the famous fountain, and finally the view from the top of the mountain, where the elegant people of Petrópolis awaited us and accompanied us in their carriages and on horseback to the city; some of the passengers from below would transfer right there to the carriages where their families were waiting for them.
Campos continued to rave about all the good things he found in the train, both the pleasure and the advantages. Just the time we save! If I had retorted by praising the time lost, it would have started a kind of debate that would have made the journey even more suffocating and short. I preferred to change the subject and clung to the last few minutes, spoke of progress, and so did he, and we arrived satisfied in the mountain town.
We both went to the same hotel (Bragança). After dinner we went for a digestive stroll along the river. Then, speaking of times past, I mentioned the Aguiar couple and the knowledge Rita told me he had of the life and youth of the two spouses. I confessed to finding in them a good example of warmth and unity. Perhaps my secret intention was to move on to the wedding of his own niece, its conditions and circumstances, something difficult because of the curiosity I might express, and besides, it's not in my nature, but he didn't give me the opportunity or the time. All this was too little to say about the Aguiar family. I listened patiently, because the subject began to interest me after the first few words, and also because the judge speaks very pleasantly. But now it's too late to transcribe what he said; that will have to wait until later, when the impression has passed, and only what is worth remembering remains in my memory.
Chapter13
Okay, let's summarize today what I heard from the judge in Petrópolis about the Aguiar couple. I won't include the incidents or the anecdotes, and I'll even exclude the adjectives that were more interesting in his mouth than my pen could give them; only those necessary for understanding things and people will be included.
The reason I am writing this is related to the moral situation of the two of them, and it is somewhat connected to the widow Fidélia. As for their lives, here it is in dry, short, and purely biographical terms. Aguiar married a bookkeeper. Dona Carmo was then living with her mother, who was from Nova Friburgo, and her father, a Swiss watchmaker from that city. The marriage pleased everyone. Aguiar continued as a bookkeeper, and moved from one house to another and another, becoming a partner in the last one, until he became a bank manager, and they reached old age without children. That's all, nothing more than that. They lived until today without any fuss or trouble.
They loved each other, they always loved each other very much, despite the jealousy they felt for one another, or perhaps because of it. From the time they were his girlfriend, she exerted over him the influence of all the girlfriends in this world, and perhaps even the next, if there are any so far away. Aguiar had once told the judge about the bitter times when, having arranged the marriage, he lost his job due to his boss's bankruptcy. He had to look for another; the wait wasn't long, but the new place didn't allow him to marry immediately; he needed to settle down, gain trust, give it time. Now, his soul was made of loose stones; the bride's strength was the cement and lime that united them in those days of crisis. I'm copying this image that I heard from Campos, and which he told me was Aguiar's own. Lime and cement immediately served him well in all cases of disjointed stones. He saw things with his own eyes, but if those were bad or diseased, she was the one who gave him the remedy for the physical or moral ills.
Poverty was the reality of their early married life. Aguiar took on various jobs to supplement their meager income. Dona Carmo oversaw the household chores, assisting the staff and providing the home with a comfort that money couldn't buy. She knew how to keep things simple and sufficient; yet everything was so orderly, so perfectly crafted by her own hands, that it captivated her husband and visitors alike. Each piece possessed a unique soul, and this soul was nothing less than her own, flawlessly balanced with rare precision, seamlessly blending grace with precision. Tablecloths and rugs, window curtains, and other items added over the years—everything bore the mark of her craftsmanship, the intimate note of her personality. She would have invented, if necessary, elegant poverty.
