# Brazilian Short Stories/The Penitent Wag

Original title: "O engraçado arrependido"
THE PENITENT WAG
Francisco Teixeira de Souza Pontes, bastard scion of a Souza Pontes family, rich planters of Barreiros and owners of thirty thousand "arrobas" of coffee, at thirty-two years of age began to take life seriously.
A wag by nature, up to that time he had lived off his comic strain and thereby reaped board, lodging, clothing and all else. His currency consisted of grimaces, jokes, anecdotes about Englishmen and everything that tickles the facial muscles of the animal that laughs, commonly called man, provoking hilarity or raising hearty guffaws.
He knew So-and-So's "Encyclopedia of Laughter and Mirth" by heart—the most mirthless creature God ever made, but such was Pontes ability that he could turn the most feeble jokes into excellent witticisms, to the delight of his hearers.
He had a knack for imitating man and beast. The entire gamut of a dog's voice, from the baying of the hound chasing the wild pig, to howling at the moon and all other sounds, growling or barking, were imitated by him to such perfection as to deceive both dogs and moon.
He also grunted like a pig, cackled like a hen, croaked like a toad, scolded like an old woman, whimpered like a baby, enjoined silence like a Representative or speechified like a patriot at ​a street meeting. What two-legged or four-legged hum of voices did he not mimic to perfection, as long as he had before him an audience well equipped with those "muscles of mirth" invented by our talented authoress Albertina Bertha?
On other occasions he reverted to prehistoric times. When his hearers were not over ignorant, drawing upon his own modicum of learning, he would reconstruct for their intellectual delectation the paleontological roars of extant brutes, love-growls of mammoths to their mates or the yells of the stegosaurus upon seeing hairy homos perched upon tree-ferns, according to the laughable descriptive science of Barros Barreto.
If he ran across a group of friends talking on a street corner, he would come quietly up to them and slap the calf of the nearest leg. It was funny to see the frightened jump and hear the nervous "Get out!" of the unsuspecting victim, followed by the hilarious laughter of the others and also of Pontes who had his own mode of laughter, boisterous and musical—music after Offenbach. Pontes' laugh was an imitation of the natural and spontaneous laughter of the human species, the only one that laughs, with exception of the drunken fox,—and passed abruptly without transition into a seriousness irresistibly comic.
In all his gestures and manner, in his way of walking, reading, eating; in the most trivial details of life, this man possessed of the devil, differed from the others in that he made prodigious fun of everything.
This reached such a point that it was only ​necessary for him to open his mouth or raise his hand, for humanity to writhe in laughter. The sight of him was enough. As soon as he appeared, all faces beamed; if he made a spontaneous gesture, laughter could be heard, if he opened his mouth some shrieked, others loosened their belts so as to laugh better. If he spoke, good Lord! one heard shrieks of laughter, yells, squeaks, chokes, sniffling and tremendous catching of breath.
"He beats the devil, this Pontes!"
"Hold on, man, you'll make me gag!"
And when the wit tried to look innocent and idiotic, remarking:
"But what did I do? I never opened my mouth. …"
"Ha, ha, ha!" everyone laughed, their jaws aching, weeping spasmodically with uncontrollable hilarity.
As time passed, the mere mention of his name was enough to provoke merriment. If anyone pronounced the word "Pontes," the gun-cotton of risibles by which man raises himself above animals who do not laugh, would instantly ignite.
Thus he lived until the age of Christ in a smiling parable, laughing and provoking laughter, without a serious thought,—a vagabond life that exchanges grimaces for dinners and pays small bills with ponderous jokes. A merchant whom he had cheated once said to him, amidst bursts of spluttering laughter:
"You amuse me, at least, and are not like Major Carapuça who cheats with a face like a wooden Indian.
That unstamped receipt troubled our wag ​not a little; but as the bill amounted to two dollars, it was well worth the trick. However, the memory of it remained, like a pin-prick to his self-respect. Following this came other pin-pricks, some shoved in with less force, others straight through.
One wearies of everything. Sick of such a life, the tireless joker began to dream of the joy of being taken seriously, of speaking and being listened to without the play of facial muscles, of gesticulating without disturbing human dignity, of crossing a street without hearing a chorus of "Here comes Pontes!" in the tone of those who check laughter or prepare themselves for a hearty guffaw.
Attempting reaction, Pontes tried to be serious—a disaster! Pontes solemnly changed his tactics and adopted English humorism. Formerly he was amusing as a clown, now he took the part of Tony.
The enormous success which everyone supposed to be a new phase of his comic strain, threw the penitent wag into despair. Was it possible that he could never follow any other path in life than that one, now so hateful to him? A clown then, everlastingly a clown against his will?
But the life of a grown man requires seriousness, gravity and even soberness, unnecessary in youth.
Even the most humble government employment, an office of alderman, requires that immobility of countenance, characteristic of laughterless idiocy. One cannot conceive a smiling, alderman. Rabelais' phrase is lacking ​in one exception: laughter is the prerogative of the human species,—aldermen excepted.
As the years passed, reflection matured, self-respect grew and the free dinners tasted bitter to him. The coining of joke currency became very difficult, it no longer was cast with the former light-heartedness; now it was done as a livelihood, not in thoughtless merriment of the days past. He mentally compared himself to a circus clown, old and ailing, obliged through poverty to transform rheumatism into comical faces required by the paying public.
He began to flee from mankind and spent months in the study of the transition necessary to obtain an honest employment for his activities. He thought of going into business, commerce, the administration of a plantation, the setting up of a bar—anything was preferable to the comic idiocy adopted up to the present.
One day, his plans fully matured, he decided to change his way of living. He looked up a friendly tradesman and frankly told him of his intentions to reform, finally asking him for a place in his business-house, if only that of sweeper. He hardly finished telling his plans when the Portuguese and all the cashiers who looked on at a distance awaiting the outcome, writhed in a hearty guffaw, highly delighted.
"What a good joke! First class! Ha! ha! ha! Then you … ha! ha! ha! You'll give me a pain, man! If it's on account of that little bill for cigarettes, rest easy, I'm already paid for it! Ha! ha! ha! Pontes has … Do you hear that one, Jose? Ha! ha! ha!"
​And the clerks, customers, the loafers and even the passers-by stopped on the sidewalk to hear the joke, and their laughter sounded like policemen's rattles as they shook until their sides ached.
The wretched creature, bewildered and perfectly serious, tried his best to dispel the misunderstanding:
"I am in earnest and you have no right to laugh. For God's sake, don't make fun of a poor unfortunate who asks for work and not laughter."
The merchant loosened his belt.
"You mean it? Pshaw! Ha! ha! ha! Look here, Pontes, you …"
Pontes left him in the middle of his sentence and went forth with his soul tortured by despair and rage. It was too much. Then everyone spurned him?
He applied at other houses in the town, explained as best he could, implored. The case was judged unanimously as one of the best jokes of the "incorrigible" wag and many persons commented upon it with the usual observation:
"He is still the same! he'll never behave, that devil of a fellow, and he is no longer young. …"
Barred from trade, he turned his attention towards the farms. He looked up an old planter who had dismissed his overseer and stated his case. The Colonel, after listening attentively to his reasons, ending up with the offer to take on the job as overseer on the farm, exploded in a fit of laughter.
​"Pontes overseer! He! he! he!"
"But …"
"Let me laugh, man, you don't hear this sort of thing in the country very often. He! he! he! Splendid! I have always said there was no wit like Pontes! None!"
And shouting within doors:
"Maria, come and hear Pontes' latest. He! he! he!"
That day the unfortunate wag wept. He understood that one cannot destroy overnight what has taken years to form. His reputation as a funny man, as a joker, as inimitable, as monumental, was built of far too good mortar and cement to crumble so soon.
However, it was necessary to change his mode of life and Pontes began to reflect on government employment, the most convenient and only possible master in this abstract case, because it neither knows how to laugh, nor does it know from close observation the cells whence laughter arises. This master, and this one alone, would take him seriously—the road to salvation, therefore, lay in that direction.
He studied the possibility of a postoffice agency, notary office, collector's office and others. Weighing well the pros and cons, trumps and suits, he decided upon the choice of a federal collector's office, the occupant of which, a Major Bentes, being old and suffering from heart trouble, was not expected to last long. His aneurism was the talk of the town, the final break being expected at any moment.
​Pontes' trump card was a relative in Rio, a rich man on the way to influence in politics, should a change of government occur. Pontes chased after him and worked so hard to interest him in his claim that the man finally dismissed him with a sure promise.
"Go in peace, for when the affair breaks out here and your collector breaks down there, no one will laugh at you any more. Go, and advise me of the man's death without waiting for the body to cool."
Pontes returned radiant with hope and patiently waited for subsequent events, with one eye on politics and the other on the provident aneurism.
Finally the crisis came; ministries fell, others rose to power and among these a negotiating politician, partner of the relative. Half the battle was over, the other half still to be fought.
Unfortunately the Major's health came to a standstill without any visible signs of a rapid decline. His aneurism was, according to the doctors who killed by allopathy, a serious thing, which could break with the slightest effort; but the cautious old man was in no hurry to leave a life of comfort, for a better world, so he fooled the illness with an ultra-methodical regime. If a violent effort would kill him then such an effort should not be made.
Pontes, already almost owner of the prize, became impatient with the swaying balance of his calculations. How could he clear the way of that obstacle? He consulted in Cherno​vitz's medical manual on aneurisms; learned it by heart. He inquired here and there about all that had been said and written on the matter and became more familiar with the subject than ever Dr. Ioduret, a local doctor, who, we may truthfully say, knew nothing at all.
The apple of science thus eaten, he was led to the temptation of killing the man, obliging him to burst the aneurism. An effort would kill him? All right, Souza Pontes would lead him to make that effort.
"A hearty guffaw is an effort," he satanically philosophized to himself," so a guffaw can kill. Well, I know how to provoke laughter."
Many days passed, lost to the world in a mental dialogue with Satan. Crime? No! in what code is to be found the provocation of laughter as a crime? If the man died of this the fault would be due to the bad condition of his great artery.
The rascal's head turned into a field of combat where his "plan" fought a duel against all objections raised by conscience. His bitter ambition served as judge of the contest and heaven knows how often said judge prevaricated, led by scandalous partiality for one of the combatants.
As was expected, Satan won and Pontes reappeared before the world a little thinner, with dark rings under his eyes but with a strange light of victorious decision in his expression. Anyone observing him closely would note his nervous manner; however, close observation was not a prevailing virtue ​among his countrymen and furthermore, Pontes' various states of mind were of no importance because Pontes …
"Well, Pontes was just Pontes!"
The future employe proceeded to plan a careful campaign. In the first place it was necessary to approach the Major, a reserved man and not fond of jests; to ingratiate himself into his home life, study his whims and pet habits until he could discover in what part of his body lay the weak spot.
He began to frequent the receiver's office assiduously, under various pretexts, sometimes for stamps, sometimes for information regarding taxes; everything was an excuse for sly and clever prattle meant to undermine the old man's severity.
He would also go on other people's business for the paying of excise taxes, taking out per-mits and other little matters. He became of great use to the friends who had business with the exchequer.
The Major was surprised at such assiduity and said so, but Pontes evaded the question, turning it into a joke, and persevered in a well calculated conclusion to let time round off the sharp corners of the sick man.
Within two months Bentes bad become used to that "chipmunk" as he called him, who on the whole seemed a good sort of fellow, sincere, eager to be of use and above all, harmless. From asking him a favor on a very busy day, then another and still a third, and finally considering him as a sort of adjunct to the department, was only a step.
​For certain commissions there was no one like him. Such earnestness! Such subtleness! Such tact!
One day the Major, reprimanding the clerk, held up his diplomacy as an example.
"You great idiot! go learn with Pontes who has a knack for everything, and is amusing besides."
That day he invited Pontes to Dinner.
Pontes' soul was filled with joy: the fortress had opened its doors to him.
That dinner was the beginning of a series where the "chipmunk," now an indispensable factotum, found a first-class field of action for his tactics.
Major Bentes, however, possessed one invulnerable point: he never laughed, he limited his hilarity to ironical smiles. A joke that would make the other guests rise from the table smothering their mouths in their table-napkins, would barely elicit a smile from him. And if the joke were not of the very best, the bored collector pitilessly guyed the story-teller.
"That's old as the hills, Pontes, I remember reading it in Laemmert's Almanack for 1850."
Pontes would smile with a vanquished look; but would inwardly say,—if that one wasn't appreciated another would be.
All his sagacity was focussed on the discovery of the Major's weak point. Each man has a preference for a certain class of humor or wit. One delights in wanton jests of rotund friars. Another regales himself with the boisterous good-humoured German Joke. Still another would give a year of his life for the Gaul's ​spicy vulgarity. The Brazilian adores a joke which exposes the rank stupidity of the Portuguese—the most convenient way our people have found to demonstrate by contrast, their own intelligence.
But how about the Major? Why did he not laugh at the English, German, French or Brazilian jokes? Which did he prefer?
Systematic observation and methodical exclusion of the classes of humor already found inefficient, led Pontes to discover the weak point of his stern adversary. The Major delighted in tales of Englishmen and friars. But they must be stories of both together. Separate, they were a failure. Just an old man's crankiness. At the appearance of red-faced Britishers, with cork helmets, checked clothes, formidable boots and pipes, side by side with rotund friars doting upon a hogshead of wine and revelling in femininme flesh, the Major would open his mouth and suspend his chewing like a child enticed by candy; and when the comic climax was reached, he would laugh, but without exaggeration enough to upset the equilibrium of his circulation.
Pontes with infinite patience bet on that class of fun and stuck to it. He increased the program, the spiciness, the dose of malice and systematically bombarded the Major's great artery with the fruits of his clever manipulation.
When the story was a long one, rendered so because the narrator added flourishes with a view to hiding the final climax and heightening the effect, the old man would become high​ly interested and during the artful pauses would ask for explanations or continuation:
"And the rascally Englishman?. . . .And what happened next?. . . .Did Mr. John call for help?"
Although the fatal peal of laughter was long in coming, the future collector did not despair, pinning his faith on the fable of the pitcher that went so often to the well that it finally broke.
The calculation was well made. Psychology, as well as Lent, was on his side.
One day, Carnival having passed, the Major gathered his friends about an enormous stuffed fish, a present from the clerk.
Carnival sport had enlivened the hearts of the guests as well as of the host who on that day was pleased with himself and the whole world, as though he had seen the blue-bird.
When the fish was brought in the Major's eyes sparkled; it was well worth all the bottled aperitives and reflected in all faces an epicurean tenderness. Fine fish was the Major's delight, especially when cooked by Gertrude. And for that dinner Gertrude had excelled in a seasoning that transcended all culinary art and soared to the height of the most exquisite poetry. What fish! Vatel could have signed it with the pen of impotence dipped in the ink of envy, said the clerk, well up as a reader of Brillat-Savarin and other authorities on good things to eat.
Between swallows of rich wine the fish was eaten with religious rites. No one dared break the silence of that bromotological beatitude.
Pontes foresaw the opportune moment to play ​his game. He had brought full-cocked a case of an Englishman, his wife and two bearded friars, an anecdote built from the best grey cells of his brain, rendered ever more perfect through long nights of insomnia. It had been kept in ambush for days awaiting the moment in which everything would contribute towards the greatest possible effect.
It was the last hope of the villain, his last cartridge. If it failed to go off he would decidedly blow out his brains. He saw that it was impossible to manipulate a more ingenious torpedo. Should the aneurism resist the shock, then the aneurism was a bluff, the great artery a fiction, Chernovitz mere twaddle, medical science worthless and Dr. Ioduret an ass and he, Pontes, the dullest, most insipid creature under the sun, therefore unworthy to live.
Pontes meditated thus, alluring the poor victim with the eyes of psychology when the Major met him halfway and winked his left eye at him.
"The time has come," thought the scoundrel and in the most natural way he took up the little bottle of sauce as though casually and began to read the label:
"Perrins, Lea & Perrins. I wonder if this might be a relation of that Lord Perrins, who baffled the two bearded friars?"
Inebriated by the seductions of the fish the Major's eyes lit up coveteously, greedy for a spicy tale:
"Two bearded friars and a Lord! The story must be A-1! Fire away, Chipmunk."
​And chewing mechanically he became absorbed in the fatal story.
The anecdote ran on insidiously in a natural strain, told with a master's art, firm and sure, with strategic progression, showing real genius, until it nearly reached the climax. Around about this point the entanglement so held the attention of the poor old man that he remained motionless, with lips parted and an olive, stuck on his fork in mid air. A half smile,—a detained smile, the spark of laughter which is the preparation for a peal of laughter, lit up his face.
Pontes hesitated. He foresaw the break of the artery. Conscience cramped his tongue, but only for an instant. Pontes let conscience quiet down again and pulled the trigger.
For the first time in his life Major Antonio Pereira da Silva Bentes broke into a hearty peal of laughter; frank, resounding,—which could be heard all down the street; a peal of laughter equal to that of Teufelsdröckh before John Paul Richter. The first and the last, because in the midst of it his astonished guests saw him fall face-downwards over his plate, while at the same time a gush of blood reddened the table-cloth.
The assassin rose hallucinated and making the most of the confusion, slipped out onto the street, a modern Cain. He hid himself at home, locked in his room, his teeth chattering the night through, in a cold sweat. The least noise filled him with terror: was it the Police?
Weeks later he began to get over that soul-fright which everyone attributed to sorrow over ​the death of his friend. Notwithstanding, he had ever before his eyes the same sight: the old man fallen over his plate, spurting blood while the echo of his last peal of laughter still rang in the air.
While in this deplorable condition, Pontes received a letter from the relative in Rio. Among other things the holder of the trump card wrote: "Since you did not advise me in time, as per our agreement, I learned of Bentes death only through the newspapers; I looked up the Minister but it was too late, the appointment of his successor had already been signed. Your frivolousness has lost you the best chance of your life. Remember this for your future guidance: tarde venientibus ossa, and be smarter in the future."
A month later they found him hanging from a beam in his room with his tongue lolling, his body rigid.
He had hung himself by leg of his drawers.
When the news got about town everyone found it amusing. The Portuguese grocer commented thus to the cashiers:
“What a fellow! Even on his dying day he cracks a joke! Hung himself by a drawers leg! Only Pontes would remember to do that"
And they repeated in chorus a series of "Ha! has!!" … the only epitaph given him by man.