Neither her father nor mother came in to see us when Capitu and I talked about the seminary, in the drawing room. Looking right at me, Capitu wanted to know what the news was that was so upsetting me. When I told her what it was, she went as pale as wax.
“But I don’t want to go,” I added straight away, “I’m not going to any seminary; I don’t want to, they can insist as much as they like, I’m not going.”
Capitu at first said nothing. She withdrew her eyes, turned them inwards, and stayed that way, with her pupils vague and sightless, her mouth half open, stock still. Then, to back up what I had said, I began to swear that I would never be a priest. In those days I swore a great deal, each oath more extreme than the last, even by life and death. I swore by the hour of my death. Let the light be taken from me at the hour of my death if I went to the seminary. Capitu seemed neither to believe or disbelieve me: she seemed not even to hear me; it was as if she were made of wood. I wanted to speak to her, to shake her, but I hadn’t the courage. This girl who had been my playmate, jumping around and dancing—I think she’d even slept in the same bed—now left me with my arms paralyzed and afraid. Finally, she came back from her trance, but her face was livid, and she broke out with these furious words:
“The sanctimonious so-and-so! Always at the altar rail…! Never away from mass!”
I was stunned. Capitu was so fond of my mother, and my mother of her, that I could not understand such a violent explosion. It is also true that she loved me, too, and naturally more, or better, or in another way, enough to explain her anger at the threat of a separation; but these offensive words—how could I understand her calling my mother such ugly things, the more so as she was defaming religious customs which she herself practised? For she also went to mass, and three or four times it was my mother who had taken her, in our old chaise. She had also given her a rosary, a gold cross and a Book of Hours … I tried to defend her, but Capitu didn’t let me, went on calling her sanctimonious and so on, in such a loud voice that I was afraid her parents would hear her. I have never seen her as angry as she was then; she seemed ready to tell everything to anyone who was listening. She clenched her teeth, shook her head … Shocked, I didn’t know what to do; I repeated my oaths, swore that I would return home that very night and tell them that nothing in the world would make me go to the seminary.
“You? You’ll go.”
“I’ll not.”
“You’ll see if you go or not.”
She went quiet again. When she spoke again, she had changed; she was not yet the Capitu I knew, but almost. She was thoughtful, calm, and spoke in a low voice. She wanted to know about the conversation at home; I recounted it all to her, except the part concerning her.
“And what’s José Dias’ interest in bringing this up?” she asked when I had finished.
“None, I think; it was just, to create trouble. He’s a mean person; but you wait, he’ll pay me back. When I’m in charge here, you’ll see, it’ll be out in the street with him; I’ll not have him my house a moment longer. Mamma’s too good; she pays him too much attention: there were even tears …”
“Who cried? José Dias?”
“No, Mamma.”
“What did she cry for?”
“I don’t know. I only heard them telling her not to cry, that it was nothing to cry about … He even said he regretted what he’d said, and went out; that was when I left the corner and ran to the verandah, so as not to be seen. But you wait and see, he’ll pay me for this!”
I said this clenching my fist, and uttered other threats. As I think back now, I don’t think I was ridiculous; adolescence and childhood are not ridiculous when they do such things; it’s one of their privileges. This fault or the danger of it begins in youth, grows with middle age and reaches its high point in old age. When one is fifteen, there is even a certain charm in threatening a great deal and carrying nothing out.
Capitu was reflecting. Reflection was not a rare occurrence with her, and you could tell it was happening by her eyes, which were shut tight. She asked me for a few more details, the actual words spoken by each person, and their tone. Since I did not want to tell her about the starting point of the conversation—that is, she herself—I could not give the whole meaning. Capitu concentrated particularly now on my mother’s tears; she could not convince herself she understood them. In the middle of all this, she admitted that my mother certainly did not want to make me a priest out of malice; it was the old promise, which she, God fearing as she was, dared not break. I was so pleased to see that she made up for the insults that had sprung from her a short time before that I took her hand and squeezed it. Capitu let herself go, laughing; then the conversation began to nod off and finally went to sleep. We had gone over to the window; a black who for some time had been hawking coconut sweets, stopped in the street opposite and asked:
“Missy want coconut today?”
“No,” said Capitu.
“Coconut good.”
“Go away,” she replied, but not harshly.
“Give some here!” said I, putting my hand down to take two.
I bought them, but I had to eat both of them on my own; Capitu refused hers. I noticed that, in the middle of the crisis, I still had time for sweets. It is not the moment to discuss whether this was a virtue or a defect; let’s just note that my friend, though she was calm and lucid, wanted nothing to do with sweets, though she liked them very much. However, the refrain that the black went away singing, the refrain of afternoons long ago, so familiar in our neighborhood when we were children:
Cry, little girl, cry,
Got no money to buy …
—it seemed as if the refrain had annoyed her. It wasn’t the tune; she knew it by heart, from a long way back, and used to repeat it in our childhood games, laughing, jumping, exchanging roles with me, first buying then selling a nonexistent sweet. I think that the words, intended to needle children’s vanity, were what irritated her now, for soon after she said to me:
“If I were rich, you’d run away, get on a steamer and go to Europe.”
As she said this, she was watching my eyes, but I think they must not have told her anything, or simply showed that I was grateful for her kind intentions: it’s true that it was such a well-meaning thought that I could overlook the fantastic nature of the adventure.
As you see, Capitu, at the age of fourteen, already had some daring ideas, though much less daring than others she had later. But they were only daring in themselves: in practice they became clever, insinuating, stealthy, and reached the required end, not with a single bound, but with lots of little jumps. I don’t know if I make myself plain. Imagine a grand conception carried out with small means. Thus, staying with the vague, hypothetical desire to send me to Europe: Capitu, if it were in her power, would not have me embark on the steamer and flee; she would stretch a line of canoes from here to there, by means of which I, seeming to go to the Laje fortress* on a floating bridge, would actually go to Bordeaux, leaving my mother waiting for me on the beach. This was the peculiar nature of my friend’s character; so it is not surprising that, opposing my plans for open resistance, she went by milder means, persevering, with words, by slow, daily persuasion, and giving consideration first to the people we could count on. She rejected Uncle Cosme; he was all for an easy life, and even if he didn’t approve of my being ordained he would not stir himself to prevent it. Cousin, Justina was better than he, and better than either would be Father Cabral, who carried great authority. But the priest would do nothing against the interests of the Church; only if I confessed to him that I felt no vocation…
“Can I admit that in confession?”
“Yes, I suppose so, but that would be to come out in the open, and there is a better way. José Dias …”
“What about José Dias?”
“He could be really useful.”
“But it was him that brought the subject up …”
“It doesn’t matter,” Capitu went on, “now he’ll say something else. He’s very fond of you. Don’t be apologetic with him. It all depends on you not being afraid: show that you’ll be master one day, show him what you want and what you can do. Make sure he understands that it’s not a favor you’re asking. Sing his praises, too: he loves to be praised. Dona Glória pays a good deal of attention to him, but that’s not what’s most important; the main thing is that, if he has to serve your interests, he’ll speak much more warmly than anyone else.”
“I don’t think so, Capitu.”
“Then go to the seminary.”
“Never.”
“What can you lose by trying? Let’s try it out: do what I say. Maybe Dona Glória will change her mind; if she doesn’t, we’ll do something else—we’ll use Father Cabral. Don’t you remember how you went to the theater for the first time, two months ago? Dona Glória didn’t want you to go, and that was enough for José Dias not to insist; but he wanted to go, and he made a speech, remember?”
“I remember; he said that the theater was a school of manners.”
“That’s it; he insisted so much that your mother ended up agreeing, and paid for both your tickets … Go on, ask, demand it. Look—say that you’re willing to go to São Paulo to study law.”*
I quivered with pleasure. São Paulo was a fragile screen, destined to be pushed aside one day, instead of the solid, eternal spiritual wall. I promised to speak to José Dias in the terms she had suggested. Capitu repeated them, stressing some as more important than others, and questioned me about them afterwards, to make sure I had understood, and had mixed nothing up. She insisted that I should ask politely, but like asking for a glass of water from someone who has the obligation to bring it. I recount these niceties, so that the morning freshness of my young friend may be understood; later comes the evening, and there was morning and there was evening the first day, as in Genesis, where there were seven days in succession.