Dom Casmurro, chapter 2: Do livro

Now that I have explained the title, I shall begin writing the book. First, however, let us state the reasons that put the pen in my hand.

I live alone, with a servant. The house I live in is my own; I had it built deliberately, moved by a desire so personal that I feel embarrassed to put it in print, but here goes. One day, many years ago, the idea came to me of recreating in Engenho Novo the house where I grew up, on the old Rua de Matacavalos, giving it the same appearance and arrangement as the other one, which had disappeared. The builder and painter understood my instructions well: it is the same two-story building, with three windows at the front, a veranda at the back, and the same bedrooms and sitting rooms. In the main room, the painting on the ceiling and walls is more or less the same: garlands of tiny flowers and large birds holding them in their beaks, at intervals. In the four corners of the ceiling are figures of the seasons, and in the center of the walls are medallions of Caesar, Augustus, Nero, and Massinissa, with their names underneath... I cannot see the reason for these figures. When we moved into the house on Matacavalos, it was already decorated that way; the decoration came from the previous decade. Naturally, it was the taste of the time to put a classical flavor and ancient figures into American paintings. The rest is also similar and alike. I have a little garden plot, flowers, vegetables, a casuarina tree, a well, and a washing place. I use old crockery and old furniture. In short, now as formerly, there is the same contrast here between the peaceful life indoors and the noisy life outside.

My clear aim was to tie together the two ends of life, and restore adolescence in old age. Well, sir, I did not manage to recreate what once was or what I once was. Everywhere, though the face is the same, the expression is different. If I were only missing the others, that might do; a man finds some consolation for the people he loses. But I myself am missing, and that absence is everything. What is here is, to make an imperfect comparison, like the dye applied to a beard and hair, preserving only the outer appearance, as they say in autopsies; the inside will not take dye. A certificate making me twenty years old could deceive strangers, like all false documents, but not me. My remaining friends are recent ones; all the old ones have gone to study the geology of graveyards. As for my women friends, some go back fifteen years, others less, and almost all believe in their youth. Two or three could persuade others of it, but the language they speak often forces one to consult dictionaries, and that frequency is tiring.

Nevertheless, a different life does not mean a worse life; it is something else. In certain respects, that former life appears to me stripped of many charms I found in it; but it is also true that it has lost many thorns that made it painful, and in memory I keep some sweet, enchanting recollection. In truth, I seldom go out and speak still less. Diversions are rare. Most of my time is spent tending vegetables, gardening, and reading; I eat well and do not sleep badly.

Now, since everything grows tiresome, this monotony finally exhausted me too. I wanted a change, and the idea came to me of writing a book. Law, philosophy, and politics came to mind, but the necessary strength did not. Then I thought of making a History of the Suburbs, less dry than Father Luís Gonçalves dos Santos's memoirs about the city; it was a modest undertaking, but it required documents and dates as preliminaries, all dry and lengthy. Then the busts painted on the walls began speaking to me, telling me that, since they could not recreate bygone days for me, I should take up the pen and recount some of them. Perhaps the narrative would give me the illusion, and the shadows would pass lightly by, as for the poet—not the one on the train, but the one in Faust: 'Here you come once more, restless shadows...?'

I was so happy with this idea that even now the pen trembles in my hand. Yes, Nero, Augustus, Massinissa, and you, great Caesar, who encourage me to write my commentaries, I thank you for the advice, and shall put on paper whatever reminiscences come to me. In this way I shall live what I have lived, and steady my hand for some more substantial work. Come, let us begin the evocation with a celebrated November afternoon that I have never forgotten. I have had many others, better and worse, but that one has never faded from my mind. You will understand by reading.