Quincas Borba (Library of Latin America) by Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis Read Free Book Online Page B

Borba’s mental condition. Minutes later he was sorry, he should have turned over the letter, he felt remorse, he thought about sending it to the doctor’s house. He called a slave, but when he came Rubião had already changed his mind again. He thought it would be imprudent. The sick man would soon be back—in a few days—he would ask about the letter, would accuse him of being indiscreet, a snitch … Easy remorse, which didn’t last long.
    “I don’t want anything,” he told the slave. And he thought about the legacy once more. He estimated the figure. Less than ten
contos
, no. He would buy a plot of land, a house, he would grow this or that, or he would mine for gold. The worst was that if it was less, five
contos …
Five? That wasn’t much, but in any case it might not go beyond that. Let it be five, it was less but better less than nothing. Five
contos
... It would be worse if the will were found null and void. All right, then, five
contos!

XI
     
    A t the beginning of the following week when he received the newspapers from the capital (Quincas Borba’s subscriptions still), Rubião read this item in one of them:
    Mr. Joaquim Borba dos Santos has died after enduring his illness philosophically. He was a man of great learning, and he wore himself out doing battle against that yellow, withered pessimism that will yet reach us here one day. It is the
mal du siècle
. His last words were that pain was an illusion and that Pangloss was not as dotty as Voltaire indicated... He was already delirious. He leaves many possessions. His will is in Barbacena.

XII
     
    “H is suffering is over,” Rubião sighed. Immediately after, taking another look at the news item he saw that it spoke of a man of merit, appreciation, to whom a philosophical controversy was attributed. No mention of dementia. On the contrary, at the end it said he was delirious during his final moments, the effect of his illness. So much the better! Rubião read the letter again and the hypothesis of a jape seemed likely once again. He knew that he had a sense of humor. He was surely poking fun at him. He went to Saint Augustine in the same way as he might have gone to Saint Ambrose or Saint Hillary, and he wrote an enigmatic letter in order to confuse him until he could return and have a good laugh over his success. Poor friend! He was sane—sane and dead. Yes, now he no longer suffered. Seeing the dog, he sighed:
    “Poor Quincas Borba! If you only knew that your master was dead…”
    Then he said to himself, “Now that my obligation is over, I’m going to turn him over to my friend Angélica.”

XII I
     
    T he news spread through the town; the vicar, the druggist, the doctor all sent to find out if it was true. The postman, who’d read about it in the papers, came in person to bring Rubião a letter that had come for him in the pouch. It could have been from the deceased although the handwriting of the sender was different.
    “So the man finally gave up the ghost, eh?” he said as Rubião opened the letter and ran his eyes down to the signature, where he read
Bras Cubas
. It was just a note:
    “My poor friend Quincas Borba died yesterday in my home,where he had appeared a while back, filthy and in tatters, the effects of his illness. Before dying he asked me to write you and give you this news personally along with many thanks. The rest will be done according to legal procedures.”
    The thanks made the teacher turn pale, but the legal procedures brought his blood back. Rubião folded the letter without saying anything. The postman spoke of different things and then left. Rubião ordered a slave to take the dog to his dear friend Angélica, telling her that since she liked animals, here was another one, that she should treat him well because he was used to good treatment, and, finally, that the dog’s name was the same as that of his master, dead now, Quincas Borba.

XIV
     
    W hen the will was read, Rubião almost keeled over. You can