A part from that, everything was going well. Capitu loved fun and amusement, and, at first, when we went for an outing or to the theater, she was like a bird out of its cage. She dressed charmingly and modestly. Although she was fond of jewelry, like other girls, she didn’t want me to buy her many or very costly ones, and one day got so upset that I promised not to buy her any more; but this didn’t last long.
Our life was more or less placid. When we were not with the family or with friends, or if we were not going to a play or a private party (and these were few and far between), we spent the evenings at the window of our house in Glória, looking at the sea and the sky, the shadow of the mountains and the ships, or passers-by on the beach. Sometimes, I would recount the history of the city to Capitu, or tell her about astronomy; an amateur’s gleanings, which she listened to attentively, not that she didn’t nod off a little sometimes. Since she couldn’t play the piano, she learned after our marriage, so fast that quite soon she would play in friends’ houses. In Glória it was one of our amusements; she sang, too, but not much and not often, because she hadn’t a good voice; one day, she realized that it was better to give up, and kept her resolution. She enjoyed dancing, and adorned herself with loving care when she was going to a ball. Her arms … Her arms are worth a sentence or two.
They were beautiful, and on the first night she went with them bare to a ball, I don’t believe they had their equal in the whole city, not even yours, lady reader, if yours had been born yet: but they were probably still in the marble they came from, or in the hands of the divine sculptor. They were the loveliest arms of the night, so much so that they filled me with pride. I could hardly speak to other people for looking at them, however much they might touch other frock coats. But at the second ball we went to it was different; when I saw that men couldn’t stop looking at them, seeking them out, almost begging for them, and brushed their black sleeves against them, I was embarrassed and annoyed. I didn’t go to the third, and in this I had the support of Escobar, in whom I had frankly confided my irritation; he agreed with me at once.
“Sanchinha won’t go either, or she’ll go in long sleeves; I think it’s indecent otherwise.”
“Don’t you think so? But don’t say why; they’ll call us seminarists. Capitu has already done so.”
That didn’t stop me telling Capitu about Escobar’s agreement. She smiled and answered that Sanchinha’s arms were not shapely, but she soon gave way, and didn’t go to the ball. She went to others, but she went with them half-dressed in chiffon, or some such cloth, which neither covered nor uncovered them entirely, like Camōes’ veil.*