Dies Irae

           Thosememorabledaysthatmoveinprocession,theirheadsjustoutofthemistofyearslongdead—themostofthemarefull-eyedasthedandelionthatfromdawntoshadehassteepeditselfinsunlight.Hereandthereintheirranks,however,movesaforlornonewhoisblind—blindinthesenseofthedulledwindow-paneonwhichthepeltingraindropshavemingledandrundown,obscuringsunshineandthecirclingbirds,happyfields,andstoriedgarden;blindwiththespatterofamiseryuncomprehended,unanalysed,onlyfeltassomethingcorporealinitsbuffetingeffects.

           Marthabeganit;andyetMarthawasnotreallytoblame.Indeed,thatwashalfthetroubleofit—nosolidpersonstoodfullinview,tobeblamedandtomakeatonement.Therewasonlyawretched,impalpableconditiontodealwith.Breakfastwasjustover;thesunwassummoningus,imperiousasaheraldwithclamouroftrumpet;Iranupstairstoherwithabrokenbootlaceinmyhand,andthereshewas,cryinginacorner,herheadinherapron.Nothingcouldbegotfromherbutthesamedismalsuccessionofsobsthatwouldnothavedone,thatstruckandhurtlikeaphysicalbeating;andmeanwhilethesunwasgettingimpatient,andIwantedmybootlace.

           Inquirybelowstairsrevealedthecause.Martha’sbrotherwasdead,itseemed—hersailorbrotherBilly;drownedinoneofthosestrangefar-offseasitwasourdreamtonavigateoneday.WehadknownBillywell,andappreciatedhim.WhenanapproachingvisitofBillytohissisterhadbeenannounced,wehadcountedthedaystoit.