The rest made me stop a little longer in the corridor, thinking. I saw Dr João da Costa come in, and the usual game of ombre was set up. My mother came out of the room, and seeing me, asked me if I had seen Capitu home.
“No, Mamma, she went on her own.”
And, almost throwing myself at her, I said:
“Mamma, I’ve got something to say to you.”
“What is it?”
Alarmed, she wanted to know where the pain was—my head, my chest, my stomach?—and she felt my forehead to see if I had a fever.
“No, no, I’m fine.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s something, Mamma … But listen, look, it’s better after we’ve had tea; a little later … There’s nothing wrong; you get frightened at everything; there’s nothing to worry about.”
“No, Mamma.”
“It’s that cold coming back. You’re pretending because you don’t want to take your medicine and sweat it off, but you’ve got a cold; I can tell by your voice.”
I tried to laugh, to prove that there was nothing wrong. But even so she would not let me put off what I had to say to her; she took me by the hand, led me to her room, lit a candle, and ordered me to tell her everything. So, to begin somewhere, I asked her when I was going to the seminary.
“Only in the new year, after the holidays.”
“Am I going … to stay?”
“How do you mean, to stay?”
“Will I come back home?”
“You’ll come back on Saturdays and for holidays: that’s the best way. When you’re ordained, you’ll come and live with me.”
I wiped my eyes and nose. She caressed me, then tried to reproach me, but I think her voice was trembling, and her eyes looked moist. Then I said that I, too, was sad about our separation. She said that it was not a separation; just a little absence, for the sake of my studies. After the first few days, I would be fine: in no time I would get used to my classmates and teachers, and I would come to love my life with them.
“I only love you, Mamma.”
There was no cunning behind these words, but I was glad I had said them, to make her believe that she was the only object of my affections; it diverted suspicion from Capitu. How many wicked intentions there are that take advantage of a half-truth like this, expressed in an innocent, pure phrase! It makes one think that lying is, at times, as involuntary as perspiration. Notice, however, dear reader, that I was trying to divert suspicions from Capitu, when I had gone to my mother precisely in order to confirm them; but the world is full of contradictions. The truth is that my mother was as innocent as the world’s first dawn, before the first sin; and certainly she was not capable even intuitively of seeing the connection between one thing and another—that is, she would not deduce from my sudden opposition that I was hiding away in corners with Capitu, as José Dias had said to her. She was silent for a few moments; then she replied without imposing her authority, which encouraged my own resistance. So I spoke to her of my vocation, which had been discussed that afternoon, and which I confessed I did not feel within me.
“But you loved the idea of being a priest so much,” she said, “don’t you remember how you used to beg to go and see the seminarists coming out of São José, in their cassocks? At home, when José Dias called you most Reverend sir, you enjoyed the joke so much. How can it be that now…? I don’t believe it, Bentinho. And anyhow … vocation? But vocation comes with habit,” she went on, repeating what she had heard from my Latin teacher.
When I tried to respond, she reproved me, not harshly but somewhat firmly, and I went back to being the submissive son I was. Then, she spoke at length, and seriously about the promise she had made; she didn’t tell me of the circumstances, or the occasion or motives for it, which I only came to know about later. She did reaffirm the most important thing, that is, that she had to fulfil the promise, in payment to God.
“Our Lord came to my aid, and saved your life, and I cannot lie to Him or fail Him, Bentinho; these things cannot be done without sinning, and God, who is great and powerful, would not allow me to do it; no, Bentinho; I know I should be punished, and severely punished. It’s good and holy to be a priest; you know lots of them, like Father Cabral, who lives so happily with his sister; an uncle of mine was a priest too, and they say he was nearly made a bishop … Stop playacting, Bentinho.”
I think the look I gave her was so reproachful, that she straight away took the word back; no, not playacting, she knew quite well that I loved her, and I was incapable of feigning a feeling I didn’t have. Weakness was what she meant, that I shouldn’t be so weak, that I should be a man and do as I ought, for her sake and for the good of my soul. All these things and others were said a little hurriedly, and her voice was not clear, but veiled and choked. I saw that her emotions were again taking hold of her, but she would not go back on her plans, so I ventured to ask her:
“What if you asked God to release you from your promise?”
“No, I can’t ask that. Are you crazy, Bentinho? And how would I know that God was releasing me?”
“Maybe in a dream; I sometimes dream of angels and saints.”
“So do I, my son; but it’s useless … Come on, it’s late; let’s go down to the living room. That’s understood then: sometime in the first two months of next year, you’ll go to the seminary. And I want you to get to know the books you’re studying really well; it’ll look good, not only for you, but for Father Cabral. They’re eager to get to know you at the seminary because Father Cabral speaks so enthusiastically about you.”
She went to the door and we both came out. But before she did, she turned around to me, and I saw her on the point of clasping me to her bosom and telling me that I wouldn’t be a priest. This was already what she wanted in her heart, as the time got closer. She wanted some way to pay the debt she had contracted, some other coinage worth as much or more, and she could find none.