Quincas Borba E-Book

Machado de Assis

• Herausgeber: Digital World
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Collection of Great Brazilian Writers
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 416

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Published in 1891, Quincas Borba is one of the masterpieces of Brazilian Realism and perhaps Machado de Assis's most scathing critique of human nature and the illusions of progress. Continuing the psychological universe begun in *Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas*, the novel delves deeper into the moral and social contradictions of the 19th century, presenting characters who, more than just living, philosophize and rave about life. At the center of the plot is Rubião, heir to the fortune and ideas of his eccentric friend Quincas Borba—creator of the famous and ironic motto: "To the victor, the potatoes." Naive and idealistic, Rubião moves to Rio de Janeiro carrying with him his mentor's money and philosophy, but ends up entangled in the vanity, ambition, and hypocrisy of bourgeois society. Between Sofia's seduction and Palha's opportunism, the protagonist loses himself in illusions and disillusionments, until his mind—fragile and poetic—gives way to delirium and madness. Machado de Assis, with his elegant and cutting prose, constructs a refined satire on power, morality, and insanity. In Quincas Borba, laughter and tragedy merge: the absurd philosophy of "Humanism"—a brilliant parody of the scientific and optimistic doctrines of his time—reveals itself as a cruel metaphor for the human condition. Man, trapped in the pursuit of glory and wealth, is portrayed as a being who destroys and destroys himself, always believing in his own rationality. This revised and adapted digital edition respects Machado's period style but offers fluidity and clarity to the contemporary reader. Ideal for students, researchers, and literature lovers, this version brings the classic to the palm of your hand, preserving its aesthetic and philosophical value, yet offering an accessible and modern reading experience. Quincas Borba is more than a novel about madness and inheritance: it is a mirror of human vanity, a treatise on the illusory nature of victory, and a work that remains alive for its irony and timeliness. Purchase the digital edition of Quincas Borba now and immerse yourself in the genius of Machado de Assis—the absolute master of irony and the Brazilian soul.

Leseprobe

Technical Sheet

Quincas Borba

2025© – Digital World. All rights reserved.

E-ISBN: 9790695290251

ATTENTION:

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the Publisher or the copyright holder.

Editorial direction

Fabrício D. Marchesan

Content creators

Pliny Guimarães

Elizabeth Morsegai

Lineu Torquato

Sheila Calazans

Lincoln LT Baptista

Rebeca Montserrat

Erica Dias

Revision

Raquel Salazar

Cover design

Digital World

Desktop publishing

Digital World

About the Publisher

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About this E-book

Source text:

Originally published in serials, from 1886 to 1891, in A Estação.

Published in volume by Garnier, Rio de Janeiro, in the same year of 1891, with substantial differences in relation to the serials.

What we have here is precisely the book edition.

By Digital World Brazil

PROLOGUE TO THE 3RD EDITION

The second edition of this book was completed more quickly than the first. Here it is in third form, with no other changes than the correction of a few typographical errors, so few that, if still preserved, they would not obscure the meaning.

A distinguished friend and colleague have been insisting that I follow this book with another. "With the Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas, from which this one originated, you will create a trilogy, and Quincas Borba's Sofia will occupy the third part exclusively." For a while, I thought it might be, but rereading these pages now, I conclude otherwise. Sofia is here in its entirety. To continue her would be to repeat her, and to repeat him would be a sin. I believe that's how I was branded with this and some other books I've been composing over time in the silence of my life. There were generous and strong voices that defended me then; I've already thanked them privately; now I do so cordially and publicly.

1889.

M. of A.

CHAPTER ONE

Rubião gazed at the cove—it was eight o'clock in the morning. Anyone who saw him, thumbs tucked into the drawstring of his dressing gown, at the window of a large house in Botafogo, would think he was admiring that stretch of still water; but, in truth, I tell you, he was thinking about something else. He was comparing the past with the present. What was he a year ago? A teacher. What is he now? Capitalist. He looks at himself, at his slippers (slippers from Tunis, given to him by a recent friend, Cristiano Palha), at the house, at the garden, at the cove, at the hills, and at the sky; and everything, from the slippers to the sky, all share the same sense of ownership.

"See how God writes straight with crooked lines," he thinks. "If Sister Piedade had married Quincas Borba, it would only give me a collateral hope. She didn't marry; they both died, and here everything is with me; so, what seemed like a misfortune..."

CHAPTER II

What a gulf there is between the mind and the heart! The former teacher's mind, vexed by that thought, turned back, searching for another topic, a passing canoe; his heart, however, remained beating with joy. What does the canoe or the canoeist matter to him, whom Rubião's eyes follow wide-open? He, his heart, keeps saying that, since Sister Piedade had to die, it was good she didn't marry; a son or a daughter might have come... — Nice canoe! — Better that way! — How well it obeys the man's oars! — The truth is they are in Heaven!

CHAPTER III

A servant brought the coffee. Rubião took the cup and, while pouring sugar into it, surreptitiously glanced at the tray, which was made of carved silver. Silver and gold were the metals he dearly loved; he disliked bronze, but his friend Palha told him it was a valuable commodity, and thus explains this pair of figures here in the living room, a Mephistopheles and a Faust. If he had to choose, however, he would choose the tray—a masterpiece of silverware, finely crafted and finished. The servant waited tensely and seriously. He was Spanish, and it was not without resistance that Rubião accepted it from Cristiano's hands; no matter how much he told him he was accustomed to his native Minas Gerais and did not want foreign languages in the house, his friend Palha insisted, demonstrating the need for white servants. Rubião relented with regret. His good page, whom he wanted to place in the living room as a piece of the provinces, could not even leave him in the kitchen, where a Frenchman, Jean, reigned supreme. was degraded to other services.

"Is Quincas Borba very impatient?" Rubião asked, taking the last sip of coffee and taking one last look at the tray.

—It seems to me that yes.

— I'll let him go.

He didn't go; he stood there for a while, looking at the furniture. Seeing the small English prints hanging on the wall above the two bronzes, Rubião thought of the beautiful Sofia, Palha's wife, took a few steps, and sat on the ottoman in the center of the room, looking into the distance...

"She was the one who recommended those two pictures to me, when the three of us were looking at things to buy. She was so pretty! But what I like most about her are her shoulders, which I saw at the colonel's ball. What shoulders! They look like wax; so smooth, so white! Her arms too; Oh! Her arms! How well-shaped!"

Rubião sighed, crossed his legs, and tapped the tassels of his dressing gown against his knees. He felt he wasn't entirely happy, but he also felt he wasn't far from complete happiness. He reconstructed in his head those mannerisms, those eyes, those movements that had no explanation, except that she loved him, and that she loved him very much.

He wasn't old; he was going to be forty-one; and, strictly speaking, he looked younger.

This observation was accompanied by a gesture; he ran his hand over his chin, shaved daily, something he hadn't done before, out of economic and unnecessary care. A simple professor! He wore sideburns (he later grew a full beard)—so soft, it was a pleasure to run his fingers through them... And thus, he recalled their first meeting, at the Vassouras station, where Sofia and her husband boarded the train, in the same car he was in coming down from Minas; it was there that he encountered that pair of fresh eyes, which seemed to echo the prophet's exhortation: All you who thirst, come to the waters. He had no ideas appropriate to the invitation, it's true; he came with the inheritance in mind, the will, the inventory, things that must first be explained in order to understand the present and the future. Let's leave Rubião in the Botafogo room, tapping the tassels of his dressing gown on his knees, and caring for the beautiful Sofia. Come with me, reader; we'll see him, months before, at the bedside of Quincas Borba.

CHAPTER IV

This Quincas Borba, if you've done me the favor of reading the Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas, is that same castaway from existence who appears there, a beggar, an unexpected heir, and the inventor of a philosophy. Here he is now in Barbacena.

As soon as he arrived, he fell in love with a widow, a woman of average means and meager means, but she was so shy that her lover's sighs fell silent. Her name was Maria da Piedade. Her brother, who is now Rubião, did everything possible to marry them. Piedade resisted; a pleurisy took her.

It was this brief passage of romance that connected the two men. Did Rubião know that our Quincas Borba harbored that little grain of foolishness a doctor thought he'd found within him? Surely not; he considered him a strange man. It is certain, however, that the little grain never left Quincas Borba's mind—either before or after the illness that slowly consumed him. Quincas Borba had had some relatives there, who died in 1867; the last was the uncle who left him as heir to his estate. Rubião remained the philosopher's only friend. He then ran a boys' school, which he closed to care for the sick man. Before becoming a teacher, he had lent his shoulders to several businesses, which ultimately foundered.

He held the position of nurse for more than five months, closer to six. Rubião's dedication was genuine; patient, smiling, and multifaceted, he listened to the doctor's orders, administered the medicine at the appointed time, and went for walks with the patient, forgetting nothing, not the housework, not the newspapers, as soon as he arrived at the Court or Ouro Preto.

— You're good, Rubião, sighed Quincas Borba.

— Great feat! As if you were evil!

The doctor's ostensible opinion was that Quincas Borba's illness would slowly subside. One day, our Rubião, accompanying the doctor to the front door, asked him about his friend's true condition. He was told he was lost, completely lost, but he should be encouraged. Why make his death more distressing with the certainty?

"No, not at all," Rubião interrupted; for him, dying is easy business. You've never read a book he wrote years ago, about some philosophy thing...

— No, but philosophy is one thing, and truly dying is another; goodbye.

CHAPTER V

Rubião found a rival for Quincas Borba's heart—a dog, a handsome, medium-sized dog, the color of lead, with black mottled spots. Quincas Borba took him everywhere; they slept in the same room. In the morning, it was the dog who would wake his master, climbing onto the bed, where they would exchange their first greetings. One of the owner's extravagances was to give him his own name, but he explained this for two reasons: one doctrinal, the other personal.

— Since Humanitas, according to my doctrine, is the principle of life and resides everywhere, it also exists in the dog, and the dog can thus receive a human name, whether Christian or Muslim...

"Well, but why didn't you name him Bernardo earlier?" Rubião asked, thinking of a local political rival.

—That's the particular reason. If I die before then, as I expect, I'll survive in the name of my good dog. You laugh, don't you?

Rubião made a negative gesture.

"Well, you should laugh, my dear. Because immortality is my lot, or my dowry, or whatever name there is. I will live forever in my great book. Those who cannot read, however, will call the dog Quincas Borba, and..."

The dog, hearing his name, ran to the bed. Quincas Borba moved, looked at Quincas Borba:

— My poor friend! My good friend! My only friend!

— Unique?

"Forgive me, you are too, I know, and I thank you very much; but a sick person is forgiven everything. Perhaps my delirium is beginning. Let me see the mirror."

Rubião handed him the mirror. The patient gazed for a few seconds at the thin face, the feverish gaze with which he discovered the outskirts of death, toward which he walked slowly but surely. Then, with a pale, ironic smile:

—Everything that's out there corresponds to what I feel inside; I'm going to die, my dear Rubião... Don't gesticulate, I'm going to die. And what is dying, for you to be so astonished?

— I know, I know you have some philosophies... But let's talk about dinner; what's it going to be today?

Quincas Borba sat on the bed, letting his legs dangle, their extraordinary thinness visible outside his trousers.

—What is it? What do you want? Rubião asked.

"Nothing," the sick man replied, smiling. "Some philosophies! How disdainful you say that to me! Say it again, come on, I want to hear it again. Some philosophies!"

—But it is not out of disdain... Do I have the capacity to disdain philosophies?

I just say that you can believe that death is worth nothing, because you will have reasons, principles...

Quincas Borba felt for his slippers; Rubião brought them to him; he put them on and began to walk to stretch his legs. He petted the dog and lit a cigarette.

Rubião wanted him to wrap up warm and brought him a tailcoat, a vest, a dressing gown, and a cape—his choice. Quincas Borba waved them away. He had a different look now; his inward-looking eyes revealed his brain as he thought. After many steps, he stopped for a few seconds in front of Rubião.

CHAPTER VI

— To understand what death and life are, I just need to tell you how my grandmother died.

— How was it?

— Sit down.

Rubião obeyed, showing the greatest possible interest on his face, while Quincas Borba continued walking.

"It was in Rio de Janeiro," he began, "in front of the Imperial Chapel, which was then Royal, on a day of great celebration. My grandmother left, crossed the churchyard, to go to the carriage house, which was waiting for her in Largo do Paço. The people were like ants. The people wanted to see the great ladies enter their rich carriages. Just as my grandmother was leaving the churchyard to go to the carriage house, a little way off, one of the beasts on a carriage happened to be startled; the beast bolted, the other followed suit, confusion, tumult, my grandmother fell, and both the mules and carriage ran over her."

She was carried in her arms to a pharmacy on Right Street. A bleeder came, but it was too late; her head was cracked, her leg and shoulder were broken, she was covered in blood; she expired minutes later.

—It was really a disgrace, said Rubião.

— No.

— No?

"Listen to the rest. Here's how it happened. The carriage owner was in the churchyard, and he was hungry, very hungry, because it was late, and he had eaten lunch early and small.

From there, he could signal the coachman; he whipped the mules to fetch his master. The carriage encountered an obstacle in the middle of the road and knocked it over; that obstacle was my grandmother. The first act in this series of acts was a movement of self-preservation: Humanitas was hungry. If, instead of my grandmother, it had been a rat or a dog, indeed, my grandmother wouldn't have died, but the fact remained the same; Humanitas needs to eat. If, instead of a rat or a dog, it had been a poet, Byron or Gonçalves Dias, the situation would have been different, providing material for many obituaries; but the essence remained. The universe hasn't yet stopped because it lacks a few dead poems blossoming in the head of an illustrious or obscure man; but Humanitas (and this is important, above all), Humanitas needs to eat.

Rubião listened, his heart in his eyes, sincerely eager to understand, but he didn't realize the necessity his friend attributed to his grandmother's death. Surely the carriage owner, no matter how late he arrived home, wasn't starving, whereas the good lady truly died, and forever. He explained these doubts to her as best he could, and finally asked:

— And what Humanitas is this?

"Humanitas is the principle. But no, I'm not saying anything. You're incapable of understanding this, my dear Rubião; let's talk about something else."

— Always say it.

Quincas Borba, who had not stopped walking, stopped for a few moments.

— Do you want to be my disciple?

— I want.

"Well, you will gradually understand my philosophy; the day you fully grasp it, ah! On that day, you will have the greatest pleasure in life, for there is no wine that intoxicates like the truth. Believe me, Humanism is the culmination of all things, and I, who formulated it, am the greatest man in the world. Look, do you see how my good Quincas Borba is looking at me? It's not him, it's Humanitas..."

—But what Humanitas is this?

— Humanitas is the principle. There is, in all things, a certain hidden and identical substance, a single, universal, eternal, common, indivisible, and indestructible principle—or, to use the language of the great Camões:

A truth that walks in things, that lives in the visible and invisible.

For this substance or truth, this indestructible principle is Humanitas.

I call it that because it sums up the universe, and the universe is man. Do you understand?

— Little, but still, how is it that your grandmother's death...

—There is no death. The encounter of two expansions, or the expansion of two forms, may determine the suppression of one of them; but, strictly speaking, there is no death, there is life, because the suppression of one is the condition for the survival of the other, and destruction does not affect the universal and common principle. Hence, the conservative and beneficial nature of war. Imagine a potato field and two starving tribes. The potatoes are only enough to feed one of the tribes, which thus acquires the strength to cross the mountain and reach the other slope, where there are potatoes in abundance; but if the two tribes peacefully divide the potatoes in the field, they do not obtain sufficient nourishment and die of starvation. Peace, in this case, is destruction; war is preservation. One tribe exterminates the other and collects the spoils. Hence, the joy of victory, the hymns, acclamations, public rewards, and all the other effects of warlike actions. If war were not this, such demonstrations would never occur, for the real reason that man only celebrates and loves what is pleasant or advantageous to him, and for the rational reason that no person canonizes an action that virtually destroys him. To the vanquished, hatred or compassion; to the victor, potatoes.

—But the opinion of the exterminated?

—There is no extermination. The phenomenon disappears; the substance is the same. Have you never seen water boil? You must remember that bubbles form and disappear continuously, and everything remains in the same water. Individuals are these transitory bubbles.

— Well, the bubble's opinion...

—Bubble has no opinion. Apparently, is there anything more distressing than one of those terrible plagues that devastates a point on the globe? And yet, this supposed evil is a benefit, not only because it eliminates weak organisms incapable of resistance, but because it gives rise to observation, to the discovery of the healing drug. Hygiene is the offspring of centuries-old rot; we owe it to millions of corrupt and infected people. Nothing is lost; everything is gained. I repeat, the bubbles remain in the water. Have you seen this book? It's Don Quixote. If I destroy my copy, I don't eliminate the work that remains eternal in the surviving copies and in subsequent editions. Eternal and beautiful, beautifully eternal, like this divine and supradivine world.

CHAPTER VII

Quincas Borba fell silent with exhaustion and sat up, panting. Rubião came to his aid, bringing him water and asking him to lie down and rest, but the sick man, after a few minutes, replied that it was nothing. He had lost the habit of making speeches; that's what he was. And, moving Rubião away so he could face him without strain, he launched into a brilliant description of the world and its excellencies.

He mixed his own ideas with those of others, images of all sorts, idyllic, epic, to such an extent that Rubião asked himself how a man who was going to die in a few days could handle such matters so gallantly.

— Come and rest a little.

Quincas Borba reflected.

— No, I'm going for a walk.

— Not now; you're too tired.

— What! It's over.

He stood up and placed his hands on Rubião's shoulders in a paternal manner.

— Are you my friend?

— What a question!

— Say.

—As much or more than this animal, replied Rubião, in a burst of tenderness.

Quincas Borba shook his hands.

— Good.

CHAPTER VIII

The next day, Quincas Borba woke up with the resolution to go to Rio de Janeiro. He would return within a month, and he had some business to attend to. Rubião was astonished. What about the illness? And the doctor? The patient replied that the doctor was a charlatan, and that the illness needed to clear its head, just like health. Illness and health were two seeds of the same fruit, two states of Humanitas.

"I'm going on some personal business," the sick man concluded, "and I also have a plan so sublime that not even you will be able to understand it. Forgive me for being so frank, but I'd rather be frank with you than with anyone else."

Rubião trusted that this project would pass him by in time, like so many others, but he was wrong. He added that, in truth, the patient seemed to be improving; he wasn't going to bed, he was going out, he was writing. At the end of a week, he sent for the notary.

—Notary? His friend repeated.

— Yes, I want to register my will. Or shall we both go...

The three of them went, because the dog wouldn't let his master and lord leave without accompanying him. Quincas Borba registered the will, with all the formalities of the day, and returned home calmly. Rubião felt his heart pounding violently.

—I won't let you go to Court alone, he said to his friend.

"No, there's no need. Besides, Quincas Borba isn't going, and I won't trust him to anyone but you. I'll leave the house as it is. I'll be back in a month."

I'm leaving tomorrow; I don't want him to sense my departure. Take care of him, Rubião.

— Yes, I do.

— Really?

— By this light that shines upon me. Am I then some child?

— Give him milk at the appropriate times, all his usual meals, and baths; and when you go for a walk with him, make sure he doesn't run away. No, the best thing is that he doesn't go out... doesn't go out...

— Go easy.

Quincas Borba wept for the other Quincas Borba. He didn't want to see him leave. He truly wept; tears of madness or affection, whatever they were, he was leaving them behind in the good land of Minas Gerais, like the final sweat of a dark soul about to fall into the abyss.

CHAPTER IX

Hours later, Rubião had a horrible thought. It was likely he himself had incited his friend to make the trip, to kill him more quickly and gain possession of the legacy, if it was indeed included in the will. He felt remorse. Why hadn't he used all his strength to restrain him? He saw Quincas Borba's corpse, pale, hideous, staring at him with a vengeful gaze; he resolved, if the fatal outcome occurred on the trip, to renounce the legacy.

For his part, the dog was always sniffing, whining, wanting to escape; he couldn't sleep still, and would often get up at night, pace the house, and return to his corner. In the morning, Rubião would call him to bed, and the dog would come happily; he imagined it was his own owner; he would later see that it wasn't, but he would accept the caresses and give him others, as if Rubião had to give his own to his friend, or bring him there.

Moreover, he had also grown fond of her, and for him, she was the bridge that connected him to his previous existence. He didn't eat for the first few days. With his thirst less bearable, Rubião was able to get her to drink milk; it was his only food for some time. Later, he would spend his hours silent, sad, curled up in himself, or else with his body stretched out and his head in his hands.

When the doctor returned, he was astonished at the patient's temerity; they should have prevented him from leaving; death was certain.

— Right?

— Sooner or later. Did you take that dog?

"No, sir, he's with me; he asked me to take care of him, and he cried, and he cried endlessly. It's true," Rubião said, defending the sick man, "the dog deserves his owner's affection: he's like a human being."

The doctor took off his wide straw hat to fix the tape; then he smiled.

People? What did they look like then? Rubião insisted, then explained; they weren't people like other people, but they had feelings, and even judgment. Look, I was going to tell you something...

—No, man, no; soon, soon; I'm going to see a man with erysipelas... If any letters come from him, and they're not confidential, I want to see them, you hear? And my regards to the dog, he concluded, leaving.

Some people began to mock Rubião and his unique task of guarding a dog instead of the dog guarding him. Laughter ensued, nicknames rained down. What was the professor up to? Dog-watcher!

Rubião feared public opinion. Indeed, he seemed ridiculous to him; he avoided the eyes of strangers, looked at the animal with disgust, gave himself to the devil, and renounced life. Had he not hoped for a legacy, however small... It was impossible for him not to leave a memory.

CHAPTER X

Seven weeks later, this letter arrived in Barbacena, dated from Rio de Janeiro, all in Quincas Borba's handwriting:

“My dear sir and friend,

You must have found my silence strange. I haven't written to you for certain private reasons, etc. I'll be back soon, but I want to tell you something private, something very private.

Who am I, Rubião? I am Saint Augustine. I know you'll smile, because you're ignorant, Rubião; our intimacy would allow me to say a blunter word, but I'll make this concession, which is the last. Ignorant!

Listen, ignorant man. I am Saint Augustine; I discovered this the day before yesterday: listen and be silent. Everything coincides in our lives. The saint and I spend part of our time in pleasures and heresy, because I consider everything that is not my doctrine of Humanitas heresy; we both stole, he, as a child, some pears from Carthage, I, as a young man, a watch from my friend Bras Cubas. Our mothers were religious and chaste. Anyway, he thought, like me, that everything that exists is good, and so he demonstrates in Chapter XVI, Book VII of the Confessions, with the difference that, for him, evil is a deviation of the will, an illusion typical of a backward century, a concession to error, since evil does not even exist, and only the first statement is true; all things are good, omnia bona, and goodbye.

Farewell, ignorant man. Don't tell anyone what I've just confided in you, or you'll lose your ears. Be quiet, keep to yourself, and be thankful for the good fortune of having a great man like me as a friend, even if you don't understand me. You will understand me.

As soon as I return to Barbacena, I will give you, in clear, simple terms, suitable for the understanding of a donkey, the true notion of the great man. Farewell; my regards to my poor Quincas Borba. Don't forget to give him milk; milk and baths; goodbye, goodbye... Yours from the heart

QUINCAS BORBA”

Rubião barely held the paper in his fingers. After a few seconds, he realized it might be a joke from his friend and reread the letter, but the second reading confirmed his first impression. There was no doubt; he was crazy. Poor Quincas Borba!

Thus, the oddities, the frequent changes of mood, the motiveless impulses, the disproportionate tenderness, were nothing more than harbingers of the total ruin of the brain.

He was dying before he died. So good! So happy! He had his impertinences, it's true, but the illness explained them. Rubião wiped his eyes, wet with emotion.

Then came the thought of the possible legacy, and it distressed him even more, for it showed him what a good friend he was going to lose.

He wanted to read the letter again, slowly this time, analyzing the words, taking them apart, to discern the meaning and discover if it really was a philosopher's joke. That way of jokingly decomposing him was familiar, but the rest confirmed his suspicion of disaster. Nearing the end, he stopped dead in his tracks. Could it be that, with the testator's mental illness proven, the will would be null and void, and the hints lost? Rubião felt dizzy. He was still holding the open letter in his hands when he saw the doctor appear, coming to report the patient; the postmaster had told him a letter had arrived. Was it that one?

— This is it, but...

— Do you have any confidential communication?...

—Precisely, it's a confidential, very confidential communication; personal business. Excuse me?

With that, Rubião put the letter in his pocket; the doctor left, and he took a deep breath. He had escaped the danger of publishing such a serious document, which could have proven Quincas Borba's mental state. Minutes later, he regretted it; he should have delivered the letter; he felt remorse, and considered sending it to the doctor's house. He called for a slave; when the slave came, he had already changed his mind again; he considered it imprudent; the patient would return soon—in a few days—would ask about the letter, would accuse him of indiscretion, of informing... Easy remorse, short-lived.

"I don't want anything," he said to the slave. And once again, he thought about the legacy. He calculated the figure. Less than ten thousand, no. He would buy a piece of land, a house, cultivate this or that, or my gold. The worst thing would be if it were less than five thousand...

Five? It wasn't much, but then again, maybe it wouldn't be more than that. Five, even if it were, was a minor arrangement, and better than nothing. Five thousand... It would be worse if the will were null and void. Well, five thousand!

CHAPTER XI

At the beginning of the following week, receiving the Court newspapers (still signed by Quincas Borba), Rubião read this news in one of them:

"Mr. Joaquim Borba dos Santos passed away yesterday, having endured his illness with singular philosophy. He was a man of great learning, and he tired himself out battling this yellow, stale pessimism that will reach us one day; it is the disease of the century. His last words were that pain was an illusion, and that Pangloss was not as foolish as Voltaire had instilled... He was already delirious. He leaves behind a great deal of property. His will is in Barbacena."

CHAPTER XII

— You just suffered! Rubião sighed.

Then, looking at the news, he saw that it spoke of a man he held in high esteem and respect, to whom a philosophical struggle was attributed. There was no allusion to dementia. On the contrary, the ending stated that he had been delirious for the last hour, the effect of his illness. Good thing! Rubião read the letter again, and the mockery hypothesis seemed more plausible once more. He agreed that he was funny; he certainly wanted to take a dig at him; he went to Saint Augustine, as he would have gone to Saint Ambrose or Saint Hilary, and wrote an enigmatic letter to confuse him, until he laughed at the deception again.

Poor friend! He was healthy—healthy and dead. Yes, he was no longer suffering at all. Seeing the dog, he sighed:

—Poor Quincas Borba! If only he could know that you were dead...

Then I can:

— Now that the obligation is over, I'm going to give it to Cummer Angélica.

CHAPTER XIII

The news spread throughout the city; the vicar, the house pharmacist, and the doctor all sent to find out if it was true. The postmaster, who had read it in the pages, personally brought Rubião a letter that had come in the suitcase for him; it could have been from the deceased, although the handwriting on the envelope was different.

"So, the man finally got his leg out of joint?" he asked, as Rubião opened the letter, hurried to the signature, and read: Brás Cubas. It was a simple note:

"My poor friend Quincas Borba passed away yesterday at my house, where he had been for some time, ragged and sordid: the result of his illness. Before he died, he asked me to write to him, to give him this news in particular, and many thanks; and that the rest would be taken care of according to the customs of the court."

The thanks made the professor pale, but the court's customs restored his spirit. Rubião closed the letter without saying anything; the agent talked of one thing and another, then left. Rubião ordered a slave to take the dog as a gift to Cummer Angélica, telling her that, since she liked animals, there was another one; to treat it well, as it was accustomed to that; and finally, that the dog's name was the same as that of its now-deceased owner, Quincas Borba.

CHAPTER XIV

When the will was opened, Rubião nearly fell over backward. You can guess why.

He was named the testator's sole heir. Not five, nor ten, nor twenty thousand, but everything, the entire capital, the assets specified, houses in the Court, one in Barbacena, slaves, policies, shares in the Bank of Brazil and other institutions, jewelry, coinage, books—everything finally passed into Rubião's hands, without diversion, without bequests to anyone, without alms, or debts. The will contained only one condition: that the heir kept his poor dog, Quincas Borba, a name he gave him out of his great affection for him. He demanded that Rubião treat him as if he were the testator himself, sparing nothing for his benefit, protecting him from illness, escape, theft, or death that anyone might wish to inflict upon him out of malice; finally, caring for him as if he were not a dog, but a human being. Furthermore, he imposed the condition that, upon the dog's death, he would give him a decent burial in his own land, which he would cover with flowers and fragrant plants; and he would also dig up the bones of the said dog, when the time was right, and collect them in an urn of precious wood to deposit them in the most honorable place in the house.

CHAPTER XV

Such was the clause. Rubião found it natural, since all he had in mind was taking care of the inheritance. He had spied a clue, and the entire mass of his assets was taken from his will. He couldn't believe it; he had to be squeezed tightly by their hands—the force of congratulations—to keep from assuming it was a lie.

—Yes, sir, write a note, said the owner of the pharmacy who had given Quincas Borba his medicine.

Heir was already a lot, but universal... This word made the inheritance's cheeks swell. Heir to everything, not a single spoonful less. And how much would it all be? he wondered. Houses, policies, stocks, slaves, clothing, china, a few paintings, which he would have at Court, for he was a man of great taste, and dealt with artistic matters with great knowledge. And books? He must have had many books; he frequently quoted from them. But how was everything going? A hundred thousand? Maybe two hundred. It was possible; three hundred, even; there was no wonder. Three hundred thousand! Three hundred! And Rubião felt like dancing in the street. Then he would calm down; two hundred, or a hundred, was a dream that God Our Lord gave him, but a long dream, never to end.

The memory of the dog managed to gain a foothold in the whirlwind of thoughts racing through our man's mind. Rubião thought the clause was natural but unnecessary, because he and the dog were two friends, and nothing was more fitting than for them to be together, to remember their third friend, the one they had lost, the author of their happiness. There were, no doubt, some peculiarities in the clause, a story about an urn, and he knew not what else; but everything would be fulfilled, even if the sky fell... No, with God's help, he amended. Good dog! Excellent dog!

Rubião never forgot that he had often tried to get rich from companies that had died in the bud. At that time, he considered himself a wretch, a country bumpkin, when the truth was that "the one who helps God is better than the one who gets up early." It wasn't impossible to get rich, so he was rich.

"Impossible, what?" he exclaimed loudly. "It is impossible for God to sin. God never fails to fulfill His promises."

He went on like this, going up and down the city streets, without a guide, without a plan, his blood pounding. Suddenly, a serious question arose whether he would live in Rio de Janeiro or stay in Barbacena. He felt the urge to stay, to shine where it was dark, to crack the chestnut into the mouths of those who had previously disregarded him, and especially those who had laughed at Quincas Borba's friendship. But, soon after, the image of Rio de Janeiro, which he knew, with its charms, its hustle and bustle, its theaters everywhere, its beautiful young women "dressed in French," came to mind. He decided it was better; he could go back to his hometown again and again.

CHAPTER XVI

— Quincas Borba! Quincas Borba! Hey! Quincas Borba! he shouted, entering the house.

No dog. Only then did he remember having sent it to his friend Angélica. He ran to her house, which was far away. On the way, all sorts of ugly ideas came to him, some extraordinary. One ugly idea was that the dog had run away. Another extraordinary idea was that some enemy, aware of the clause and the gift, would go to her friend, steal the dog, and hide or kill it. In this case, the inheritance... A cloud passed over his eyes; then he began to see more clearly.

"I don't know anything about justice," he thought, "but it seems I have nothing to do with it. The clause assumes the dog is alive or at home, but if it runs away or dies, there's no need to invent a dog; therefore, the main intention... But my enemies are capable of trickery. If the clause isn't fulfilled..."

Here, our friend's forehead and the backs of his hands watered. Another cloud over his eyes. And his heartbeat is fast, fast. The clause was beginning to seem extravagant. Rubião was getting involved with the saints, promising masses, ten masses... But there was his friend's house. Rubião quickened his pace; he saw someone; was it her? Yes, it was her, leaning against the door and laughing.

—What a figure you've been making, my friend? Half dizzy, throwing your arms around.

CHAPTER XVII

—My dear, the dog? Rubião asked indifferently, but pale.

—Come in and sit down, she replied. What dog?

"What dog?" Rubião's face grew paler. "The one I sent you. Don't you remember I sent you a dog to stay here for a few days, to rest, to see if... in short, a very pet. It's not mine. It came to... But don't you remember?"

"Ah! Don't talk to me about that animal!" she replied, rushing her words.

She was small, trembling at the slightest thing, and when she fell in love, the veins in her neck swelled. She told him again not to mention the animal.

—But what did he do to you, my dear?

—What did you do to me? What would the poor animal do to me? He doesn't eat anything, he doesn't drink, he cries like a human being, and he walks around with only one eye out, trying to escape.

Rubião took a deep breath. She continued to tell him about the dog's annoyances; he, anxious, wanted to see him.

"He's back there, in the big enclosure; he's alone, so the others don't mess with him. But is his friend coming to get him? That's not what they said."

It seemed to me that I heard that it was for me, that it was given.

"I'd give you five or six if I could," Rubião replied. "I can't give you that one; I'm just a trustee. But don't worry, I promise you a son. Believe me, the message came wrong."

Rubião walked; his godmother, instead of guiding him, followed him. There was the dog, inside the enclosure, lying away a bowl of food. Dogs and birds were jumping from all sides outside; to one side was a chicken coop, farther away, pigs; even further away, a cow lay drowsy, with two hens at her feet, picking at her belly, pulling out ticks.

—Look at my peacock! said the godmother.

But Rubião had his eyes on Quincas Borba, who was sniffing impatiently, and who threw himself at him as soon as a boy opened the pen door. It was a scene of delirium; the dog responded to Rubião's caresses, barking, jumping, and kissing his hands.

— My God! What friendship!

"You can't imagine, my dear. Goodbye, I promise you a son."

CHAPTER XVIII

Rubião and the dog, entering the house, sensed and heard the person and voices of their late friend. While the dog sniffed everywhere, Rubião sat in the chair where he had been when Quincas Borba described his grandmother's death with scientific explanations. His memory reconstructed, albeit jumbled and frayed, the philosopher's arguments. For the first time, he fully considered the allegory of the starving tribes and understood the conclusion: "To the victor, the potatoes!" He distinctly heard the late man's hoarse voice explain the tribes' situation, the struggle and the reason for the struggle, the extermination of one and the victory of the other, and murmured:

— To the victor, the potatoes!

So simple! So clear! He looked at his worn jeans and his darned wheelbarrow and realized that until recently he had been, so to speak, an exterminate, a blob; but now, no, he was a victor. There was no doubt; the potatoes were made for the tribe that eliminates the other, to cross the mountain and reach the potatoes on the other side. Precisely his case. He was going down from Barbacena to uproot and eat the potatoes of the capital. He had to be tough and ruthless; he was powerful. And rising suddenly, excited, he raised his arms, exclaiming:

— To the victor, the potatoes!

He liked the formula; he found it ingenious, comprehensive, and eloquent, as well as true and profound. He conceived of potatoes in their various forms, classified them by flavor, appearance, and nutritional value, and gorged himself on life's banquet.

It was time to do away with the poor, dry roots that only deceived the stomach, the sad food of long years; now the plentiful, the solid, the perpetual, to eat until death, and die in silken bedspreads, which are better than rags. And he returned to the assertion of being hard and implacable, and to the formula of allegory. He even composed a signet ring from memory for his use, with this motto: TO THE VICTOR, THE POTATOES.

He forgot the seal design, but the formula lived on in Rubião's mind for a few days: "To the victor, the potatoes!" He wouldn't have understood it before the will; on the contrary, we saw that he found it obscure and unexplained. It's so true that the landscape depends on the point of view, and that the best way to appreciate the whip is to hold the handle in your hand.

CHAPTER XIX

Let's not forget to mention that Rubião took it upon himself to order a Mass for the deceased's soul, even though he knew or sensed that he was not Catholic. Quincas Borba didn't spout nonsense about priests, nor did he discredit Catholic doctrines, but he didn't speak of the church or its servants. On the other hand, the veneration of Humanitas made the heir suspicious that this was the testator's religion. Nevertheless, he ordered the Mass to be said, considering it not an act of the deceased's will, but a prayer of the living; he further considered that it would be a scandal in the city if he, named heir by the deceased, failed to offer his protector the suffrages that are not denied to the most miserable and avaricious of this world.

If some people stopped attending to avoid witnessing Rubião's glory, many others — and not from the rabble — were the ones who saw the true compunction of the former boys' teacher.

CHAPTER XX

With the preliminary arrangements for settling the inheritance settled, Rubião arranged to come to Rio de Janeiro, where he would settle as soon as everything was finished. There was work to be done in both cities, but things promised to move quickly.

CHAPTER XXI

At Vassouras station, Sofia and her husband, Cristiano de Almeida e Palha, boarded the train. He was a handsome young man of thirty-two; she was between twenty-seven and twenty-eight. They sat on the two benches opposite Rubião's, arranged the small baskets and bundles of souvenirs they had brought from Vassouras, where they had spent a week; buttoned their coats, and exchanged a few words in low voices.

After the train continued moving, Palha noticed Rubião, whose face, among so many frowning or annoyed people, was the only placid and contented one. Cristiano was the first to strike up a conversation, telling him that railroad trips were very tiring, to which Rubião replied that they were; for someone accustomed to traveling by donkey, he added, the railroad was tiring and no fun; however, it could not be denied that it was progress...

—Certainly, agreed Palha. Progress is great.

— Are you a farmer?

— No, sir.

— Do you live in the city?

— From Vassouras? No, we came here to spend a week. I actually live in the Court.

I wouldn't be suited to being a farmer, although I think it's a good and honorable position.

From farming, they moved on to livestock, slavery, and politics. Cristiano Palha cursed the government for introducing a word about servile property into the throne speech, but, to his great astonishment, Rubião ignored his indignation. The government planned to sell the slaves the testator had left him, except for a page; if he lost anything, the remainder of the inheritance would cover the loss. Besides, the throne speech, which he had also read, commanded respect for current property. What did he care about future slaves if he wouldn't buy them? The page would be freed as soon as he came into possession of the assets. Palha changed the subject, moving on to politics, the Chambers, the Paraguayan War—all general matters, to which Rubião more or less paid attention. Sofia merely listened; she only moved her eyes, which she knew were beautiful, staring now at her husband, now at her interlocutor.

"Are you going to stay at Court or go back to Barbacena?" asked Palha after twenty minutes of conversation.

"I want to stay, and I will," Rubião replied. "I'm tired of the provinces; I want to enjoy life. I might even go to Europe, but I don't know yet."

Palha's eyes lit up instantly.

—You're very right; I would do the same if I could; for now, I can't.

Have you've probably been there?

—I've never been. That's why I had some ideas when I left Barbacena; so goodbye!

We need to get the stench off our bodies. I don't know when that will be yet, but I will...

"You're right. They say there are many splendid things there; no wonder, they're older than us, but we'll get there, and there are things in which we're on par with them, and even superior. Our Court—I wouldn't say it can compete with Paris or London, but it's beautiful, you'll see..."

— I've seen it.

— Already?

— Many years ago.

—You'll find it better; you've made rapid progress. Then, when you go to Europe...

“Have you ever been to Europe?” Rubião interrupted, addressing Sofia.

— No, sir.

"I forgot to introduce you to my wife," Cristiano replied. Rubião bowed respectfully, and, turning to her husband, he said to him with a smile:

—But don't you introduce me to me?

Palha smiled too; he understood that neither of them knew each other's names, and he hurried to say his.