The Alienist and Other Stories of Nineteenth-Century Brazil (17 page)

“Death to the alienist!” shouted the approaching voices.

Dona Evarista, although easily overwhelmed by a tumult of happiness, knew how to retain her composure in the face of danger. Pulling herself together, she ran to her husband’s study. When she entered it precipitately, the illustrious physician was scrutinizing an Arabic text by the medieval authority Averroes, and his eyes, clouded with cogitation, rose from the book to the ceiling and fell from ceiling to book, visualizing profound mental truths but blind to external realities. Dona Evarista called to her husband two times, without attracting his attention. The third time he heard her and asked if she were ill.

“Don’t you hear those shouts?” asked his worthy wife, in tears.

The alienist listened to the shouts, ever closer and more menacing, and he grasped the entire situation. Rising from the armchair in which he had been seated, he closed his book and went with firm and unhurried steps to deposit it on the bookshelf. Because returning the volume to its place pushed the contiguous volumes slightly out of alignment, Simão Bacamarte took a moment to correct that minimal but meaningful imperfection. Then he told his wife to stay inside and do nothing.

“No, no,” implored the worthy woman, “I want to die at your side …”

Simão Bacamarte insisted that she stay inside, no one was going to die, and even should that be the case, her duty was to remain alive. And the sorrowful lady bowed her head, obedient and tearful.

“Down with the Casa Verde!” bellowed the mob.

The alienist walked toward the balcony just as the Pork Chop Revolution arrived beneath it, its three hundred heads radiant with civic virtue but somber with fury. “Death to the tyrant!” came the shout from all sides as the figure of the alienist emerged onto the balcony. Simão Bacamarte raised his hand, asking to speak. The rebellious mob drowned his voice with howls of indignation. Then the barber waved his hat to impose silence, managed to quiet his friends, and told the alienist that he could speak, as long as he did not try the People’s patience. They had had enough.

“I will say little, or even nothing all, as the case may be. First, though, I need to know what you are asking for.”

“We aren’t asking for anything,” replied the barber vehemently, “we’re
demanding
that the Casa Verde be demolished, or at least, emptied of all its victims.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you understand, tyrant! We are here to liberate the victims of your hatred, your greed, your obstinacy …”

The alienist smiled a smile invisible to the eyes of the multitude, a slight contraction of two or three muscles, nothing more. He smiled and responded:

“Science is a serious thing, gentlemen, and it deserves to be treated seriously. In matters of alienism, I answer to no one, save to scientific authority and to God. If you want to discuss my management of the Casa Verde, I am willing to hear you. But if you ask me to betray my principles, you will gain nothing thereby. I could invite you to send a delegation with me to observe my treatment of the demented—I could, but I will not, because I will never explain my therapeutic regimen to an unschooled mob.”

The alienist said these things, and the multitude was amazed. Clearly, it had not anticipated such energy, and still less, such serenity. And its amazement grew as the alienist bowed gravely, turned his back, and left the balcony. The barber then recovered his self-possession and, waving his hat, called his followers to demolish the Casa Verde, but only scattered, uncertain voices responded. It was at that precise moment that the barber felt the ambition to govern awaken inside him. He believed that by demolishing the Casa Verde and overthrowing the alienist he would gain decisive influence over the town council and make himself master of Itaguaí. For a number of years he had been trying to get his name included on the list of men eligible to serve on the town council, but he had been rejected because his trade and social status were deemed inappropriate for such exalted office. It was now or never. Things had gone too far for him to turn back. Failure would mean exile, prison, or even the gallows. Unfortunately, the alienist’s words had diminished the fervor of his followers. The barber felt a surge of indignation, an urge to shout, “Cowards, wretches!” But he restrained himself and took a different tack:

“Let us struggle, dear friends, to the bitter end. The salvation of Itaguaí lies in your worthy and heroic hands. Let us pull down the walls that imprison your fathers and brothers, your mothers and sisters, the walls that threaten your own freedom. If not, you will surely die on rations of bread and water, groaning beneath the lash, in the dungeons of the tyrant.”

The multitude roused itself, murmured, shouted with defiance, and swirled around the barber. The Pork Chop Revolution was reborn after faltering briefly, and it was ready to raze the Casa Verde to the ground.

“Forward!” shouted Porfírio, waving his hat.

“Forward!” repeated his followers.

But something stopped them in their tracks: a corps of heavily armed, mounted dragoons marching up the street in their direction.

VII
Something Unexpected

When the dragoons came face to face with the Pork Chop Revolution, there ensued a moment of stupefaction. The rebels could hardly believe that the army had been sent against them, but the barber understood everything and simply waited. The dragoons halted, and their captain told the multitude to disperse. Although some were inclined to do so, others rallied around the barber, who responded audaciously:

“We shall not disperse. Take our dead bodies if you must. They are yours, but the bodies only. You shall not take our honor, our rights, or our self-respect, for upon them depends the salvation of Itaguaí.”

A rash reply, certainly, but a very natural one, revealing the disorientation that often occurs in moments of great crisis—revealing as well, perhaps, an excessive confidence that the dragoons would refrain from using their weapons, a confidence that their captain dissipated instantly by ordering a charge. The next moments defied description. The multitude howled with fury. Some managed to escape by climbing into the windows of nearby houses or running down the street. But the majority stood firm, bellowing their indignation, bolstered by the exhortations of the barber. The defeat of the Pork Chop Revolution appeared imminent when, suddenly—for reasons not clarified in the chronicles—a third of the dragoons switched sides and joined the rebels. The unexpected reinforcements simultaneously encouraged the rebels and discouraged their foes. The remaining dragoons did not have the heart to attack their former comrades and, one by one, joined them until, after a few minutes, the picture had altered completely. The captain, accompanied now by only a handful of men, faced a compact mass of intimidating rebels. He had no choice but to accept defeat and surrender his sword to the barber.

The triumphant rebellion lost no time. After attending to the wounded, it made for the town hall. Dragoons and rebels fraternized with each other and with the cheering crowd, shouting vivas for the king and his viceroy, for Itaguaí and their illustrious leader, who walked at the head of the multitude waving the surrendered sword as nimbly as one of his straight razors. Victory wreathed the barber’s brow with a mysterious aura, and the dignity of office had begun to stiffen his thighs.

The councilmen, peering from the windows of the town hall, assumed that the dragoons were bringing the rebels back as captives. Immediately, they voted to petition the viceroy for a bonus to reward the troops whose bravery had saved Itaguaí from “plunging headlong into the abyss of anarchy.” This phrase was proposed by Sebastião Freitas, the dissident councilman whose earlier defense of the rebels had so scandalized his colleagues. Very quickly, however, shouts of “Long live Porfírio” and “Death to the alienist” informed the council of the sad truth. Its president did not lose his nerve: “Whatever may be our fate, let us never forget that we are, above all, servants of His Majesty and Itaguaí.” Sebastião Freitas insinuated that their most effective service might be to exit by the backdoor and consult with the judge, but the other councilmen vigorously rejected that suggestion.

The barber then entered the town hall accompanied by his chief lieutenants and arrested the council. The erstwhile councilmen did not resist and allowed themselves to be taken to jail. At that point, the barber’s associates proposed that he take charge of the municipal government in the name of His Majesty. Porfírio accepted that responsibility, although he was well aware (he added) of the thorny difficulties it entailed. He would need the support of his friends (he added further), and they assured him of it. The barber went to the window and communicated these resolutions to the crowd, who did not hesitate to ratify them and acclaim the barber “Protector of Itaguaí in the name of His Majesty and the People.” The protector then issued various important documents officially announcing the formation of the new government and providing the viceroy with a detailed report of recent events (including repeated protestations of loyalty and obedience to His Majesty). He also penned the following brief but forceful proclamation:

“People of Itaguaí!

“The former, privileged town council, grown negligent and corrupt, was conspiring against the interests of His Majesty and the People. Public opinion condemned it, and now a handful of citizens, aided by the courageous Royal Dragoons, have dissolved it and, with the unanimous consensus of the townspeople, have confided in me, your faithful servant, the responsibility of governing until such a time as His Majesty disposes otherwise. People of Itaguaí! All that I ask is your confidence and your help in restoring public tranquility and probity in the management of our public finances, so needlessly squandered by the council that you have seen fit to overthrow today. Rest assured of my disposition to self-sacrifice and of the eventual favor and gratitude of His Majesty.

The Protector of Itaguaí in the
Name of His Majesty and the People
“PORFIRIO CAETANO DAS NEVES”

Everyone noticed the proclamation’s total silence regarding the Casa Verde, a bad sign according to some. The danger seemed all the greater because, during the momentous events of that afternoon, the alienist had taken seven or eight more people to the Casa Verde, two of them women. Another was a relative of the protector, and while this was not, in point of fact, an intentional provocation on the part of the alienist, everyone interpreted it that way. The town held its breath hoping, within another twenty-four hours, to see the alienist himself locked up and his so-called asylum destroyed forever.

The day ended cheerfully. As the man with the noisemaker went from one street corner to the next reading the proclamation, people poured out of their houses and gathered in excited crowds, cheering the illustrious Porfírio and swearing, if need be, to die in his defense. Confidence in the new government was such that one heard few shouts of protest against the Casa Verde. The barber issued a decree making the day a holiday, and he asked the vicar to say a celebratory mass in honor of the occasion, but Father Lopes flatly refused.

“In any case, Father, I certainly hope that you’re not planning to join the ranks of the opposition,” said the barber with a scowl.

“And how could I do that,” responded the vicar, without responding, “if there isn’t any opposition?”

The barber smiled, because it was true. Except for the captain of dragoons, the deposed town council, and a few local big shots, everyone acclaimed him. Even the big shots, while not acclaiming him, had not opposed him. Practically the whole town regarded him as a savior, the man who was going to liberate Itaguaí from Simão Bacamarte and his dreadful Casa Verde.

VIII
The Apothecary’s Dilemma

The next morning, the barber, accompanied by two uniformed assistants, strode up the main street of Itaguaí in the direction of Simão Bacamarte’s residence. He knew that it would be more dignified and fitting to summon the alienist to the Palace of Government (as he had renamed the town hall), but he feared that his summons would be ignored, and so he chose to go to the alienist, instead. That way he would avoid embarrassment and also appear magnanimous.

I will not describe the apothecary’s terrified state of mind when told that the barber was going to Bacamarte’s house. “They’re going to arrest him,” he thought. The apothecary’s anguish during those days of revolution can hardly be imagined. No man ever found himself on the horns of a worse dilemma. Bacamarte’s hour of need called Crispim Soares to his friend’s side, but the triumph of the barber called him to the barber. News of the rebellion had burdened the apothecary’s spirit severely the day before, because he knew that the alienist was universally hated. News of the barber’s triumph a few hours later had been the last straw. Crispim’s wife, a woman of fortitude and a particular friend of Dona Evarista, had told him that his place was at the side of Simão Bacamarte. But his heart had cried out that, no, it was a lost cause, and nobody willingly espouses a lost cause. “Cato did it, true enough,” he had reflected, “when he fell on his own sword.” Father Lopes had often told him the story of Cato’s suicide when Julius Caesar conquered Pompeii. But Crispim reasoned that Cato had no choice, and
he
did. So, when his wife had insisted that he make his stand with the alienist, Crispim Soares declared that he had a fever and felt ill.

“There goes Porfírio to Dr. Bacamarte’s house,” said his wife the next morning, standing at his bedside. “He’s got several men with him.”

“They’re going to arrest him,” thought the apothecary.

That idea led to another. After arresting the alienist they would come arrest
him
as an accomplice. And that idea cured his fever instantly. Leaping out of bed, he announced that he felt better, and, despite his consort’s strenuous protests, he dressed and went out. The old chronicles of Itaguaí are unanimous in saying that the apothecary’s wife took great comfort in the noble action of her husband, who she believed was going to join his friend Bacamarte. The chroniclers point out, as well, that nothing could better illustrate the comforting power of mistaken beliefs, because Crispim went not to the alienist’s house, but, rather, to the Palace of Government. Once there, he expressed surprise at not finding the barber, whom he wished to congratulate. He had not done so yesterday on account of illness, and he forced a cough. The officials to whom he spoke considered his declaration significant, because they well knew of his friendship with the alienist. So they received him warmly, saying that His Excellency had gone to the Casa Verde on important business but would return shortly. They offered the apothecary a chair, some refreshment, and their compliments, remarking that the cause of the illustrious protector was the cause of all true patriots. Crispim Soares said yes, yes, of course, that he intended to write to His Majesty in those very terms.