“But think; at such a festival you surely will not be mournful. Why then keep the outer signs of mourning?”
“And you will not be superstitious, and fear that the black dress of the grandmother will bring bad luck to the child?”
“Oh no; but it does not harmonise with the surrounding gaiety. Have you then sworn an oath?”
“No; it is only a firm resolution. But a resolution linked to such a memory—you know my meaning—that it partakes of the inviolability of an oath.”
My son bowed his head, and did not urge me further.
“I have interrupted you in what you were about—you were writing?”
“Yes—my autobiography. God be praised, it is at an end. That was the last chapter.”
“But how can you bring your history to an end? For you are still alive, and will live many years yet—many happy years—amongst us, mother. Surely with the birth of my little Frederick, whom I will bring up to adore his grandmamma, a new chapter must be opening for you.”
“You are a good child, dear Rudolf. I should be unthankful if I did not take pride and joy in you; and just as much joy does my—and his—beautiful Sylvia give me. Oh yes! I am reserved for a blessed old age. A quiet evening! But still, the history of the day is over when the sun has set, is it not?”
He concurred with a silent look of compassion.