Now is precisely the moment when the two lovesick lovers will draw closest. Their voices rise, as does their enthusiasm, the entire Song of Songs passes their lips, tinged with fever. Joyous phrases, sacristy anecdotes, caricatures, witticisms, nonsense, mere foolishness, nothing holds their attention, or even makes them smile. On and on they go, while the space between them narrows. Stay where you are, blurred outlines of dunderheads who made the canon laugh and whom he has long since forgotten; stay, vanished wrinkles, old riddles, the rules of card games, and you, too, the germs of new ideas, outlines of conceits, the dust of what must once have been a pyramid; stay, jostle, hope, and then despair, for to them you are nothing. They have eyes only for each other.

They seek and they find. Sílvio has finally found his Sílvia. They see each other and fall into each other’s arms, panting with exhaustion, but satisfied with their reward. They join together, arms about each other, and return, pulsating, from unconscious to conscious. “Who is this that cometh up from the wilderness, leaning upon her beloved?” asks Sílvio, as in the Song; and she, with the same erudite turn of phrase, replies that it is “the seal upon thine heart” and that “love is as strong as death itself.”

At this the canon trembles. His face lights up. His pen, filled with emotion and respect, joins the adjective to its noun. Sílvia will now walk side by side with Sílvio in the sermon that the canon will one day preach, and hand in hand they will go to the printer’s, if, that is, he ever gets around to putting together a collection of his sermons, which remains to be seen.

The Cane

THE CANE

DAMIÃO RAN AWAY from the seminary at eleven o’clock on a Friday morning in August. I don’t know which year it was exactly, but certainly before 1850. After only a few minutes, he stopped running, suddenly filled with embarrassment. He had not considered how people might react to the sight of a fleeing, frightened seminarian. Being unfamiliar with the streets, he walked aimlessly up and down, and finally stopped. Where could he go? He could not go home, because his father, after giving him a sound beating, would send him straight back to the seminary. He had not planned where exactly he might take refuge, because he had intended making his escape at some later date; however, a chance incident had precipitated his departure. Where could he go? There was his godfather, João Carneiro, but he was a spineless creature, incapable of doing anything on his own initiative. He had been the one to take him to the seminary in the first place, presenting him to the rector with these words:

“I bring you a great man of the future.”