Finally I picked up my books and ran to my lesson. I didn’t exactly run; half way, I stopped, realizing that it must be very late and that they might see something in my face. I thought of lying, of saying that I had had a turn and fallen to the ground; but the fright this would give my mother made me reject the idea. I thought of promising a few dozen paternosters; but I still had another promise owing and a favor pending … No, let’s wait and see; I went on, and heard cheerful voices in loud conversation. When I entered the room, no one scolded me.
Father Cabral had received a message the previous day from the internuncio; he went to see him, and was told that, by pontifical decree, he had just been named protonotary apostolic. He and our whole household were delighted by this honor from the Pope. Uncle Cosme and cousin Justina kept repeating the title admiringly; it was the first time it had sounded in our ears, which were used to canons, monsignors, bishops, nuncios, and internuncios; but what was an protonotary apostolic? Father Cabral explained that while it was not exactly an appointment to the Curia, it was its equivalent in terms of the honor. Uncle Cosme, seeing himself exalted in his partner at cards, repeated:
“Protonotary apostolic!”
And turning to me: “Prepare yourself, Bentinho; one day you might be a protonotary apostolic.”
Cabral listened to the repetition of the title with pleasure. He would stop and then take a few steps, smiling or drumming his fingers on his snuffbox. The length of the title somehow doubled its magnificence, though it made it too long to attach to his name: it was Uncle Cosme who made this second observation. Father Cabral replied that there was no need to say it all; he could just be called Protonotary Cabral. The apostolic could be taken as read.
“Protonotary Cabral.”
“Yes, you’re right; Protonotary Cabral.”
“But, Protonotary,” said cousin Justina so that she could get used to tide, “does this mean you have to go to Rome?”
“No, Dona Justina.”
“No, it’s just the honors,” observed my mother.
“However, there’s no reason,” said Cabral, who was still thinking, “there’s no reason why on more formal occasions, at public events, in formal letters, etc., the full title should not be used: protonotary apostolic. For everyday use, protonotary is sufficient.”
“Of course,” everyone agreed.
José Dias, who came in a little after me, applauded the distinction, and recalled, apropos, the first political acts of Pius IX, which had given such great hopes to Italy; but no one took the subject up.* The man of the hour and the place was my old Latin teacher. I, recovering from my fears, realized that I should congratulate him, too, and this praise touched him no less than that of the others. He gave me a fatherly pat on the cheek, and ended up by giving me a holiday. It was almost too much happiness for me to take in. A kiss and a holiday! I think my face must have shown just that, because Uncle Cosme, his belly shaking with laughter, called me a scoundrel; but José Dias put a check on my happiness:
“One should never be happy to be idle; he will always need Latin, even if he doesn’t become a priest.”
I knew my man. It was the first word, the seed sown in the ground, just in passing, as if to accustom the family to their sound. My mother gave me a loving, sad smile, but she immediately replied:
“He’ll be a priest, and a fine priest.”
“Don’t forget, sister Glória, and a protonotary, too. A protonotary apostolic.”
“Protonotary Santiago,” Cabral underlined.
I don’t know if my Latin master merely intended to get used to joining the title with someone’s name; what I do know is that when I heard my name tied to that title, I had an urge to say something rude. But this urge was just an idea, an idea without expression, which kept itself to itself, just like some other ideas a little later … But they demand a chapter to themselves. Let us complete this one by saying that the Latin master spoke for a time about my ordination as a priest, though without showing much interest. He was looking for a different subject to pretend he had forgotten his own glory, but it was this that dazzled him. He was a thin old man, serene, and with good qualities. He had some defects; the most notable being that he liked his food, without being exactly gluttonous; he ate little, but was fond of good quality, choice dishes, and our cuisine, while simple, was less monotonous than his. So, when my mother asked him to stay to dinner so that we could drink his health, the eyes he accepted with might have been protonotarian, but they were not apostolic. And to thank my mother he again used me, describing my ecclesiastical future, and wanted to know if I was going to the seminary soon, in the following year, and offered himself to speak to “my Lord Bishop,” peppering everything he said with “Protonotary Santiago.”