“And the last guest from our modest dinner has just gone home. So, my boy, you have at last reached the age of twenty-one. Yes, twenty-one years ago, on the fifth of August, 1854, you first saw the light of day, a tiny little scrap of a thing, and now you’re a man with a fine mustache, a few conquests under your belt—”

“Father!”

“Now, don’t act all surprised, and let’s have a serious chat, man-to-man. Close the door. I have some important things to tell you. Sit down and let’s talk. Twenty-one years old, a private income, and a college degree: you could go into politics, the law, journalism, farming, industry, commerce, literature, or the arts. An infinite number of careers lie before you. Twenty-one, my boy, is but the first syllable of our destiny. Even Pitt and Napoleon, however precocious, had not reached their peak at twenty-one. But whatever profession you choose, my only wish is that you do something great and illustrious, or at least noteworthy, that you raise yourself above the common herd. Life, Janjão, is one enormous lottery; the prizes are few and the unlucky innumerable, and it is upon the sighs of one generation that the hopes of the next are built. That’s life; there’s no use whining or cursing; we must just accept things as they are, with their burdens and benefits, their glories and blemishes, and press on regardless.”

“Yes, Father.”

“However, just as it is wise, metaphorically speaking, to set some bread aside for one’s old age, so it is also good social practice to keep a career in reserve, just in case the others fail entirely, or do not quite meet our ambitions. That is my advice to you, my son, on this the day when you come of age.”

“And I’m grateful for it, Father. But what career do you have in mind?”