I left for the seminary. Spare me the other farewells. My mother clasped me to her breast. Cousin Justina sighed. I think she hardly cried, if at all. There are people to whom tears come slowly, or never come at all; it’s said they suffer more than the others. Cousin Justina was probably hiding her intimate sufferings, while she corrected my mother’s oversights, gave advice and issued orders. Uncle Cosme, when I kissed his hand to say goodbye, said to me with a laugh:
“Off you go, lad; come back Pope!”
José Dias, composed and grave, said nothing at first; we had spoken the previous day, in his room, where I went to see if it might still be possible to avoid the seminary. Nothing could now be done, but he gave me hopes, and above all he cheered me up. Before the year was out we’d be on board. As I thought this too short a time, he explained:
“They say it’s not a good time to cross the Atlantic: I’ll make inquiries. If it’s not, we’ll go in March or April.”
“I can study medicine right here.”
José Dias ran his fingers up and down his braces with an impatient gesture, pursed his lips, and then formally rejected the notion.
“I would not hesitate to approve the idea,” he said, “if it weren’t for the fact that in the School of Medicine they teach, exclusively, that allopathic filth. Allopathy is the error of the ages, and will perish; it’s murder, a lie, an illusion. If they tell you that in the School of Medicine you can learn that part of the sciences which is common to all systems, that is true; allopathy errs in the realm of therapeutics. Physiology, anatomy, pathology, are neither allopathic nor homeopathic, but it is best to learn everything from the beginning, from the books and the lips of men who cultivate the truth …”
Thus he had spoken the previous day in his room. Now, he said nothing, or proffered some aphorism about religion and the family. I remember this one: “To divide a thing with God is still to possess it.” When my mother gave me her last kiss: “A most loving scene,” he sighed. It was the morning of a beautiful day. The slave-children were whispering to each other; the women came to take their blessing: “Your blessing, massa Bentinho! Don’t forget your old Joana! Miquelina pray for your worship!” In the street, José Dias still insisted on hope for the future:
“Put up with it for a year; by then it’ll all be arranged.”