Back Machado de Assis
Chapters (32)
  1. Cover
  2. Title
  3. Foreword by Michael Wood
  4. Introduction
  5. Augusta’s Secret
  6. Luís Duarte’s Wedding
  7. The Alienist
  8. How to Be a Bigwig
  9. Dona Benedita
  10. The Loan
  11. The Most Serene Republic
  12. The Mirror
  13. A Visit from Alcibiades
  14. The Devil’s Church
  15. Final Chapter
  16. Posthumous Picture Gallery
  17. The Chapter on Hats
  18. Ex Cathedra
  19. The Academies of Siam
  20. Fame
  21. The Gentleman’s Companion
  22. Mr. Diplomat
  23. Life!
  24. The Canon, or the Metaphysics of Style
  25. The Cane
  26. Midnight Mass
  27. Canary Thoughts
  28. Father Against Mother
  29. Maria Cora
  30. The Tale of the Cabriolet
  31. About The Author
  32. About The Translators

And she declared that, no, it was the other lady who was truly good, just like her name. Dona Maria dos Anjos was an angel, a real angel! And Dona Benedita underlined the word with the same loving gaze, not persistent or prolonged, but restless and intermittent. For his part, the canon, seeking to expunge all memory of the unfortunate incident, changed the topic of conversation to the weighty matter of which was the best dessert. Opinions diverged widely. Some thought the coconut dessert was best, some the one with cashew nuts, and others the orange one, etc. The author of the toast, Leandrinho, said—although not with his lips but slyly with his eyes—that the sweetest of desserts were Eulália’s cheeks—a dusky, rosy-cheeked dessert. His own mother inwardly approved of those unspoken words, while the young woman’s mother did not even see them, so caught up was she in her adoration of her new friend. An angel, a real angel!

Chapter II

The next day, Dona Benedita got up from her bed with the idea of writing a letter to her husband, a long letter in which she would tell him about the party, name all the guests and the different dishes, describe the reception afterward, and, more importantly, tell him about her new friendship with Dona Maria dos Anjos. The mail pouch closed at two in the afternoon, Dona Benedita had woken at nine, and, since she didn’t live far away (her house was on the Campo da Aclamação), a slave would be able to deliver the letter to the post office in plenty of time. What’s more, it was raining; Dona Benedita pulled back the net curtain and saw the drenched windowpanes; a persistent drizzle was falling, the sky was dark and overcast and dotted with thick black clouds. In the distance, she could see a cloth fluttering and flapping over a basket carried on the head of a black woman, from which she concluded that it was windy. A splendid day for staying at home, and, therefore, for writing a letter, two letters, or indeed all the letters a wife could possibly write to her absent husband. No one would come to tempt her away.