VIII
Morning
There was a pounding on the door and a shout. It was the young husband’s voice. “It’s time to feed your face.”
They were at the breakfast table when I came down. My cherished memory of the group is the picture of them with bowed heads, the grandfather, with hand upraised, saying grace. It was ornate, and by no means brief. It was rich with authority. I wanted to call in all the mocking pagans of the nation, to be subdued before that devotion. I wanted to say: “Behold, little people, some great hearts still pray.”
I stood in the door and made shift to bow my head. Yet my head was not so much bowed but I could see Gretchen-Cecilia and her mother timidly cross themselves. In my heart I said “Amen” to the old man’s prayer. But I love every kind of devotion, so I crossed myself in the Virgin’s name.
The tale had as well end here as anywhere. On the road there are endless beginnings and few conclusions. For instance I gathered from the conversation at the breakfast table they were not sure whether they would move to the city or not. They were for the most part silent and serene.
There were pleasant farewells a little later. Gretchen-Cecilia, when the others were not looking, gave me, at my earnest solicitation, a tiny curl from the head of her doll that had truly truly hair.
I walked on and on, toward the ends of the infinite earth, though I had found this noble temple, this shrine not altogether made with hands. I again consecrated my soul to the august and Protean Creator, maker of all religions, dweller in all clean temples, master of the perpetual road.
THAT MEN MIGHT SEE AGAIN THE
ANGEL-THRONG
Would we were blind with Milton, and we sang
With him of uttermost Heaven in a new song,