Elizabeth Bishop - Prose

I know very well that Aunt Neném is my father’s oldest sister and that he esteems her highly. But I confess that I can’t cry for the death of an English aunt whom I didn’t know. She’s been sick for many years at the fazenda and none of her nephews or nieces knew her. When my father learned that she was very low he went there, a week ago. We’d already been invited to Leontina’s wedding here. It was the first dance I’d ever been to. My rose-colored dress was the first pretty dress I’d ever had. How could I miss all that?

Then, I don’t know how, the news spread through town. Papa only wrote to mama, who was all ready to go to the wedding, too, and didn’t go; but she herself thought it was a shame that we couldn’t go, after getting the news at the last minute. She planned it with us: “You go with your cousins and I won’t tell anyone about Neném’s death today. I’ll keep the news until tomorrow.” But I’m so unlucky that I’d barely put my foot in the door of the bride’s house when I received condolences. It seemed like spite. But I lied bravely, with a blank face. “Condolences for what?” “The death of your aunt.” “Who said that? It isn’t true. My father’s at the fazenda and he hasn’t sent word to mama.” But they wouldn’t leave me alone until they convinced themselves that I was more interested in amusing myself than in weeping for the death of an unknown aunt.

Oh! What a wonderful night! In spite of everybody’s eagerness to spoil my fun, they didn’t succeed. It was the first time I’d gone to a dance. How wonderful dancing is! And how quickly I learned all the steps! If I hadn’t gone to the wedding yesterday I could never have been consoled for having missed it. There’s a party like that so seldom! And then I think nobody’s going to remember the lack of feeling we showed for very long. It would have been better if Aunt Neném had died after the wedding and we could have shown more feeling. But it wasn’t God’s will. What could we do?

* * *

… Superstition in Diamantina. Since I was little, I’ve suffered from all sorts of superstitions. If there were thirteen people at the table, I was always the one who had to leave. Combing one’s hair at night, under any circumstances, sends one’s mother straight to hell. Sweeping the house at night upsets one’s life. Breaking a mirror is bad luck. Rubbing one foot against the other, walking backwards, and other things I don’t remember now, are all unlucky. They can explain why some of them do harm, but not others. Such as, for example, if a visitor stays too long, stand the broom behind the door, or throw salt in the fire, and she’ll go away. I believe that salt in the fire works if the visitor hears it crackle, because she knows what it means.

The funny thing is that everybody knows that superstition is a sin, but they prefer to confess it rather than do something that somebody says brings bad luck.

Once I asked grandma, “The Senhora doesn’t like to sin, and how is it that you know superstition is a sin and yet have so many superstitions?” She answered, “There are things that are born in us, daughter. Nobody can see proofs, the way I have — such as thirteen people at the table and within a year one of them dying, or a mirror that fell and broke in Henrique’s house and he had such bad luck afterward — without being afraid. The priests all say it’s a sin, but I don’t doubt that they believe in it, too. It’s something we’re born knowing, the people’s voice is the voice of God.” I said, “I know for my part that I’m not going to believe these things, grandma. If it’s a sin it’s because God thinks it’s absurd.” And she said, “Yes, my child, I don’t say that you should believe in a lot of them, I think that’s nonsense. But some are true and you oughtn’t to ignore them. Like thirteen people at the table, and a broken mirror, you can’t make light of them.”

I’m almost fourteen years old and already I think more than all the rest of the family. I think I began to draw conclusions from the age of ten years, or less. And I swear I never saw anybody from mama’s family think about things. They hear something and believe it: and that’s for the rest of their lives.

They’re all happy like that!

* * *

… I’m going to unburden myself here of the disappointment, the rage and the sorrow, that I suffered yesterday at my cousin Zinha’s wedding. She’s my rich uncle’s daughter, and the wedding was an important occasion.

My uncle ordered dress-lengths of silk from Rio de Janeiro for his girls. All my other cousins were making themselves silk dresses, too. Mama bought two lengths of fine pink wool for me and Luizinha. Aunt Madge took mine to make and Luizinha’s went to another dressmaker.

Aunt Madge came back from Rio recently and since then I haven’t had any peace. I have to carry a parasol so I won’t get sunburned, because the girls in Rio don’t have freckles. I have to wear my hair loose because the girls in Rio wear their hair loose. The same nagging all the time; the girls in Rio dress this way, the girls in Rio wear their hair that way. I didn’t mind if the dress was made like those the girls in Rio wear. I just wanted it to be pink.

Aunt Madge took the material and never asked me to try it on. I went to her house every day as usual, and saw nothing of the dress. Once I got up my courage and asked for it. She said, “Don’t worry. You’re going to the wedding looking prettier than all the others.”

The wedding was day before yesterday. I and Luizinha went to Dudu’s house to have our hair arranged, and we left delighted, with hairdos that made us look like young ladies. Luizinha dressed up in her dress and we went to Aunt Madge’s; my dress was nowhere to be seen. Aunt Madge said, “There’s no hurry, child. It’s early yet.” And taking a comb, she said, “Sit here. You’re a little girl, why do you want to wear your hair like a young lady?” She wet my hair, pulled out the curls, and let it fall down on my shoulders. Then she went and brought in the dress; a simple dress of navy blue wool with just a row of buttonholes down the back, bound with red ribbon.

Today I think it’s a pretty dress; but at the moment I had one of my attacks of rage and I couldn’t hold back my tears. Unable to say a word, I kissed my aunt’s hands and ran out in the street. Luizinha followed me, in silence. I went up Burgalhau Street, into the Cavalhada Nova, and into Direita Street, running all the way, and blind with rage. I couldn’t see a thing. Grandma’s been at Uncle Geraldo’s for several days, waiting for the wedding. I went into her room and fell on her bed in such a storm of tears it frightened her. But all she said was, “My God! What’s happened!” Luizinha came in and grandma asked, “What’s the matter?” Luizinha said, “It’s because she was longing for a pink dress and Aunt Madge dressed her like that.”

When I break down, it’s always with grandma. I feel she’s the only one who understands me. Then grandma began with her usual remarks: “Another of Madge’s and my trials with this girl! She doesn’t understand that we’re only trying to do what’s right for her. She wants always to be just like all the plain girls!” Then I raised my head sobbing, and said, “I’m the most miserable, the skinniest, the stupidest of them all, grandma, and I always have to be inferior in everything. I’m so envious of Luizinha because Aunt Madge doesn’t like her!” Grandma said, “Stop crying over nothing, silly child. Some day you’ll see that your godmother, who’s so good to you, and I were right. Go wash your face and let’s go to the parlor. They’re all there already.” Then I showed her my hair and said, “Do I have to go into the parlor with my hair like a lunatic from the asylum, grandma?” She said, “It’s pretty, child.” I said, “Grandma, the Senhora just doesn’t know what I’m going through. I was looking forward to my pink dress with such pleasure, and today, to dress like a widow, and to see all the rest of them in pink and pale blue and everything? No, grandma, it was too cruel of Aunt Madge. I don’t want her to take any more interest in me, grandma. This is the end!”