gaudy appearance and clamor, a slackness of will, the rule of whim, and more. Out of that earth and that manure this flower was born.
XII
An Episode in 1814
But I don’t want to go ahead without giving a quick rundown of a stirring episode in 1814. I was nine years old.
When I was born Napoleon was already basking in all the splendor of his power and his glory. He was emperor and had completely conquered men’s admiration. My father, who, on the strength of having persuaded others of our nobility had ended up persuading himself, kept on feeding a completely mental hatred of him. That was the motive for some angry disputes in our house because my Uncle João—I don’t know whether out of a spirit of class or sympathy for his profession—pardoned in the despot what he admired in the general. My priest uncle was inflexible in his opposition to the Corsican and my other relatives were divided. That was the basis of the controversy and the rows.
When the news of Napoleon’s first fall reached Rio de Janeiro, there was naturally great shock in our house, but no gibes or taunts. Thelosers, witnessing the public rejoicing, considered it more decorous to remain silent. Some even went so far as to clap hands. The populace, cordially happy, didn’t skimp on their affection for the royal family. There were torches, salvos,
Te-Deums
, parades, and cheers. I went about those days with a new rapier my godfather had given me on Saint Anthony’s Day and, quite frankly, I was more interested in the rapier than in Bonaparte’s fall. I’ve never forgotten that. I’ve never stopped thinking to myself that my rapier has always been greater than Napoleon’s sword. And please note that I heard a lot of speeches when I was alive, read a lot of controversial pages with big ideas and bigger words, but—I don’t know why—behind all the applause they drew from my mouth, sometimes that voice of experience would echo:
“Come on, all you care about is your rapier.”
My family wasn’t satisfied with having an anonymous share of the public celebration. They found it opportune and indispensable to celebrate the overthrow of the emperor with a banquet, and such a banquet that the sound of the acclamations would reach the ears of His Highness or, at least, those of his ministers. No sooner said than done. All the old silver inherited from my grandfather Luís Cubas was taken down. The tablecloths from Flanders were unpacked, the large pitchers from India. A barrow was slaughtered. Compotes and quince marmalades were ordered from the nuns of Ajuda. Everything was washed, scoured, and polished: parlors, stairs, candlesticks, wall brackets, lamp chimneys, all items of classic luxury.
At the given hour a very select: society gathered: the district judge, three or four military officers, some businessmen and lawyers, several government officials, some with their wives and daughters, some without them, but all with a common desire to stuff a turkey with Bonaparte’s memory. It wasn’t a banquet but a
Te-Deum
. That was more or less what one of the lawyers present, Dr. Vilaça, said. He was a famous glosser who added the tidbit of the muses to the dishes of the house. I remember as if it were yesterday, I remember seeing him rise up with his long hair gathered in a pigtail, silk tailcoat, an emerald on his finger, and ask my priest uncle to repeat a maxim, and when the maxim was repeated, he fastened his eyes on the head of a lady, coughed, lifted his right hand, clenched except for his forefinger which pointed to the ceiling, and, posed and composed like that, he gave back the word with a gloss. Not just one gloss, but three. Then he swore to his gods that it would never end. He would ask for a maxim, would be given one, wouldquickly gloss it, and then ask for another, and another, to the point that one of the ladies present couldn’t keep her admiration silent.
“You say that,” Vilaça modestly replied, “because you never heard
XII
An Episode in 1814
But I don’t want to go ahead without giving a quick rundown of a stirring episode in 1814. I was nine years old.
When I was born Napoleon was already basking in all the splendor of his power and his glory. He was emperor and had completely conquered men’s admiration. My father, who, on the strength of having persuaded others of our nobility had ended up persuading himself, kept on feeding a completely mental hatred of him. That was the motive for some angry disputes in our house because my Uncle João—I don’t know whether out of a spirit of class or sympathy for his profession—pardoned in the despot what he admired in the general. My priest uncle was inflexible in his opposition to the Corsican and my other relatives were divided. That was the basis of the controversy and the rows.
When the news of Napoleon’s first fall reached Rio de Janeiro, there was naturally great shock in our house, but no gibes or taunts. Thelosers, witnessing the public rejoicing, considered it more decorous to remain silent. Some even went so far as to clap hands. The populace, cordially happy, didn’t skimp on their affection for the royal family. There were torches, salvos,
Te-Deums
, parades, and cheers. I went about those days with a new rapier my godfather had given me on Saint Anthony’s Day and, quite frankly, I was more interested in the rapier than in Bonaparte’s fall. I’ve never forgotten that. I’ve never stopped thinking to myself that my rapier has always been greater than Napoleon’s sword. And please note that I heard a lot of speeches when I was alive, read a lot of controversial pages with big ideas and bigger words, but—I don’t know why—behind all the applause they drew from my mouth, sometimes that voice of experience would echo:
“Come on, all you care about is your rapier.”
My family wasn’t satisfied with having an anonymous share of the public celebration. They found it opportune and indispensable to celebrate the overthrow of the emperor with a banquet, and such a banquet that the sound of the acclamations would reach the ears of His Highness or, at least, those of his ministers. No sooner said than done. All the old silver inherited from my grandfather Luís Cubas was taken down. The tablecloths from Flanders were unpacked, the large pitchers from India. A barrow was slaughtered. Compotes and quince marmalades were ordered from the nuns of Ajuda. Everything was washed, scoured, and polished: parlors, stairs, candlesticks, wall brackets, lamp chimneys, all items of classic luxury.
At the given hour a very select: society gathered: the district judge, three or four military officers, some businessmen and lawyers, several government officials, some with their wives and daughters, some without them, but all with a common desire to stuff a turkey with Bonaparte’s memory. It wasn’t a banquet but a
Te-Deum
. That was more or less what one of the lawyers present, Dr. Vilaça, said. He was a famous glosser who added the tidbit of the muses to the dishes of the house. I remember as if it were yesterday, I remember seeing him rise up with his long hair gathered in a pigtail, silk tailcoat, an emerald on his finger, and ask my priest uncle to repeat a maxim, and when the maxim was repeated, he fastened his eyes on the head of a lady, coughed, lifted his right hand, clenched except for his forefinger which pointed to the ceiling, and, posed and composed like that, he gave back the word with a gloss. Not just one gloss, but three. Then he swore to his gods that it would never end. He would ask for a maxim, would be given one, wouldquickly gloss it, and then ask for another, and another, to the point that one of the ladies present couldn’t keep her admiration silent.
“You say that,” Vilaça modestly replied, “because you never heard
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