The next day I went next door as soon as I could. Capitu was saying goodbye to two friends from school who had come to visit her, Paula and Sancha, the former fifteen, the latter seventeen. The first was a doctor’s daughter; Sancha’s father was a dealer in American goods. Capitu was downcast, and had a kerchief tied round her head; her mother told me she had read too much the previous evening, before and after tea, in the parlor and in bed, until long after midnight, with a nightlamp…
“If I’d lit a candle you’d have been angry, Mamma. I’m fine now.”
She began to untie her kerchief: her mother hesitantly told her it was better to keep it on, but Capitu replied that it wasn’t necessary, she was fine.
We remained alone in the living room; Capitu confirmed her mother’s story, adding that she had had a bad night because of what she had heard at our house. I also told her what had happened to me, the talk with my mother, my entreaties, her tears, and in the end the final decisive answer: in two or three months I would go to the seminary. What could we do now? Capitu listened to me with eager attention, then gloomily; when I finished, she could hardly breathe, as if about to burst with anger, but she controlled herself.
This took place so long ago that I cannot say with certainty whether she really cried or if she just wiped her eyes; I think she just wiped them. Seeing the gesture, I took her by the hand to cheer her up, but I, too, needed cheering. We slumped onto the sofa, and sat there staring into space. I’m lying: she was staring at the floor. I did the same thing, as soon as I saw her doing so … But I think that Capitu was looking inside herself, while I really was looking at the floor, the worm-eaten cracks, two flies crawling around, and a chipped chair-leg. It wasn’t much, but it took my mind off our troubles. When I looked at Capitu again, I saw that she was completely still, and became so frightened that I shook her gently. She came back to the surface and asked me to tell her again what had happened with my mother. I did as she asked, toning the story down this time, so as not to upset her. Don’t call me a dissembler, call me compassionate; it is true that I was afraid of losing Capitu, if all her hopes were ended, but it was painful to see her suffer. But the whole truth is that I already repented of having spoken to my mother, before any effective work on José Dias’ part; thinking about it, I wished I had not had the disappointment, even though I thought it inevitable: it might have been delayed. Capitu was reflecting, reflecting, reflecting…