As I was saying, I went noiselessly up the stairs, pushed open the door, which was ajar, and came on cousin Justina and José Dias playing cards in the sitting room nearby. Capitu got up from the sofa and came over to me. Her face was now serene and pure. The others stopped their game, and we all talked about the tragic event and the widow. Capitu criticized Escobar’s imprudence, and didn’t disguise the sadness her friend’s grief caused her. I asked her why she hadn’t stayed with Sancha that night.
“There are a lot of people there; even so, I did offer, but she didn’t want me to. I also told her that it would be better for her to come here, and spend some days with us.”
“She refused that too?”
“Yes.”
“Still, the sight of the sea must be painful to her, every morning,” reflected José Dias, “and I don’t know how she’ll be able …”
“But it’ll pass; what doesn’t?” interrupted cousin Justina.
When we started a conversation on this topic, Capitu went out to see if her son was asleep. As she passed by the mirror, she arranged her hair so carefully that one would have thought it affectation, if we didn’t already know that she was very fond of herself. When she came back her eyes were red; she told us that, when she looked at her sleeping son, she had thought about Sancha’s little daughter, and the widow’s suffering. Without taking any notice of our visitors, or looking to see if there were any servants about, she embraced me and said that, if I wanted to think of her, I must take care of my own life first. José Dias thought it a “most beautiful” phrase and asked Capitu why she didn’t write poetry. I tried to laugh the episode off, and so we ended the night.
The following day, I was sorry I had torn the speech up, not that I wanted to publish it, but it was a souvenir of the deceased. I thought of putting it together again, but I could only find loose phrases, that made no sense next to one another. I also thought of writing another, but it was difficult now, and I might be caught out by those who had heard me in the cemetery. As for picking up the pieces of paper I had thrown into the street, it was too late; they would already have been swept away.
I made a list of the gifts I had received from Escobar, books, a bronze inkwell, a walking stick with an ivory top, a bird, Capitu’s album, two landscapes of Paraná and other things. He had also had some from me. We often exchanged presents and keepsakes in this way, on birthdays or for no particular reason. All this made my eyes mist over … Then the daily papers came; they gave the news of the accident and Escobar’s death, his education and commercial activities, his personal qualities, the condolences of the business community, and spoke, too, of his estate, of his wife and daughter. All this was on the Monday. On Tuesday the will was opened, and it named me second executor; the first was his wife. He left me nothing, but the words he had written to me in a separate letter were a sublime expression of friendship and esteem. This time, Capitu wept a great deal; but she composed herself quickly.
The will, the inventory, everything happened almost as quickly as it’s set down here. After a little time, Sancha retired to her relatives’ home in Paraná.