In the silence that followed my reading, once more I heard the monotonous lament of the fountain in the court, and I recalled my father’s confidence when, about to speak, confidence had closed his lips. What could he have said to my mother which she would not know from him? She was still living with him. She would finish his work, and then she would go to join him. It was so simple; and this was why she was so at peace.
Her calmness communicated itself to Aunt Deen, always at work, and ever on the lookout for the most humiliating duties, polishing floors or blacking shoes, as if she would punish herself for having outlived her nephew. And when mother gently took her to task for her excessive devotion, she would protest with tears, as if begging a favour.
As at evening one sees the village lights come out, one by one, along the slopes, so I could see the lights of our house shining out even beyond our own horizon, to the ends of the world, and even beyond the world. They were shining for the absent as well as for the present, for Mélanie at the bedside of the poor, for Stephen at Rome, and for Bernard, soldier of the outposts in his far distant colony. And they were shining still higher.
And it seemed to me that the walls whose restrictions I had deplored during my years of youth, during my mad search for liberty, were opening of themselves to let me pass out. They no longer kept me a prisoner. How should they keep me a prisoner? Wherever I might henceforth go, I should carry with me a bit of earth, a bit of my earth, as if I had been made of its dust, as God made the first man.
That evening, the eve of my departure, my faith in The House became faith in The Eternal House where the dead live again in peace....
April, 1908—December, 1912.