turn away, and my imagination began to picture before me scenes of her
active life and happiness. I forgot that the corpse lying before me
now--the THING at which I was gazing unconsciously as at an object which
had nothing in common with my dreams--was SHE. I fancied I could
see her--now here, now there, alive, happy, and smiling. Then some
well-known feature in the face at which I was gazing would suddenly
arrest my attention, and in a flash I would recall the terrible reality
and shudder-though still unable to turn my eyes away.
Then again the dreams would replace reality--then again the reality put
to flight the dreams. At last the consciousness of both left me, and for
a while I became insensible.
How long I remained in that condition I do not know, nor yet how it
occurred. I only know that for a time I lost all sense of existence, and
experienced a kind of vague blissfulness which though grand and sweet,
was also sad. It may be that, as it ascended to a better world, her
beautiful soul had looked down with longing at the world in which she
had left us--that it had seen my sorrow, and, pitying me, had returned
to earth on the wings of love to console and bless me with a heavenly
smile of compassion.
The door creaked as the chanter entered who was to relieve his
predecessor. The noise awakened me, and my first thought was that,
seeing me standing on the chair in a posture which had nothing touching
in its aspect, he might take me for an unfeeling boy who had climbed
on to the chair out of mere curiosity: wherefore I hastened to make the
sign of the cross, to bend down my head, and to burst out crying. As I
recall now my impressions of that episode I find that it was only during
my moments of self-forgetfulness that my grief was wholehearted. True,
both before and after the funeral I never ceased to cry and to look
miserable, yet I feel conscience-stricken when I recall that grief
of mine, seeing that always present in it there was an element of
conceit--of a desire to show that I was more grieved than any one else,
of an interest which I took in observing the effect, produced upon
others by my tears, and of an idle curiosity leading me to remark
Mimi's bonnet and the faces of all present. The mere circumstance that
I despised myself for not feeling grief to the exclusion of everything
else, and that I endeavoured to conceal the fact, shows that my sadness
was insincere and unnatural. I took a delight in feeling that I was
unhappy, and in trying to feel more so. Consequently this egotistic
consciousness completely annulled any element of sincerity in my woe.
That night I slept calmly and soundly (as is usual after any great
emotion), and awoke with my tears dried and my nerves restored. At ten
o'clock we were summoned to attend the pre-funeral requiem.
The room was full of weeping servants and peasants who had come to bid
farewell to their late mistress. During the service I myself wept
a great deal, made frequent signs of the cross, and performed many
genuflections, but I did not pray with, my soul, and felt, if anything,
almost indifferent. My thoughts were chiefly centred upon the new coat
which I was wearing (a garment which was tight and uncomfortable) and
upon how to avoid soiling my trousers at the knees. Also I took the most
minute notice of all present.
Papa stood at the head of the coffin. He was as white as snow, and
only with difficulty restrained his tears. His tall figure in its black
frockcoat, his pale, expressive face, the graceful, assured manner in
