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PARTISAN REVIEW
all-dead though still alive en route to the grave. From the hospital
to the church, she was that dead person, taking it upon herself to
allow her little girl, and conscious of doing so, to perform the familiar
journey for the last time. But, upon leaving the town for the country
to go to the cemetery, she put her veil back from her face simply by
turning her ridiculous hat around on her head. By that time, walking
had become a painful duty-of which she devoutedly wished to
acquit herself-but which exhausted her by its difficulty. She felt
warm. She unfastened one button ne·ar the top of her garment, then,
fifty yards further, on another. The funeral train was getting away
from her. Nevertheless, she was surprised that she recognized the
meadows, the tree groves, the rough stone walls.
"After all, I'm going to the cemetery," she said to herself, "and
now that I am so far away from my little girl" (she thought she
should never be able to catch up with the hearse) "I can take a
short-cut." This she dared not do. Her feet were aching more and
more. Soldiers on long hikes say, coarsely: "My dogs are barking."
"My dogs are barking," thought the little servant, but she reproached
herself for thinking that, as it instantly brought back memories of a
lad in the infantry she used to know in a town in the East. Then she
turned her thoughts to her daughter; quickly looking up, she saw
her so far away that she
d~terrnined
to catch up with her by walking
faster: "I'll do it or bust.... " The soldiers again came to her mind
and again she felt ashamed. All these inner happenings exhausted her.
"It's dreadful to lose a child. And they make me bury her.
Anyhow, my baby wasn't just any baby, she was the daughter of a
colonel."
"Is the cemetery very far still, sir?" She spoke to the wind, the
sun, the stones, to nothing. There was no one near her. The funeral
train, going down a
hill,
was hidden from view. She was alone.
"They are having lunch now. And waiting on themselves. Oh,
how tired I am! It's a nuisance to have babies die, and to have to
bury them. Couldn't they make soup out of them? They'd cook up
quite tender and make a good rich broth." The little servant was
saying her rosary, each bead of which was made of vermiculated
black wood. This pattern, in relief, made the beads look like a toy,
the most frivolous of toys. Is it a fact that grief
is
greater if you are
more conscious of it? You are conscious of your grief when you keep
your mind riveted on
it,
when you never let your attention waver
from it, not even for an instant; but then it withers you like a sun
looked square in the face, its heat eats into you in such a way that
