We had been to see the young man twelve hours before he died. He was
quite merry with us, and full of hope because the fever had left him,
which was only a sign of weakness. Yesterday, when sitting with Aniela
on the veranda, the cleric's mother came up to tell us about his
death, in her own quaint way, in which sorrow blended with quiet
submission to the inevitable. In my pity for her, there was a great
deal of curiosity, for up to now I had not much occasion to see
anything of the inner life of the peasants. What quaint expressions
they use! I tried to remember her words in order to note them down.
She embraced my knees, then Aniela's, after which she put the outside
of her hands over her eyes, and began to wail: "O little Jesus,
dear--O Maria, holiest of Virgins! He is dead, my poor lamb, dead! He
was eager to see the Lord face to face; more eager than to stop with
his little father and mother! Nothing could hold him back, not even
the ladies' cares! Wine he had in plenty, and good food, and that
could not save him; O little Jesus, dear! O holiest of Virgins! O
Jesus mine!"
In her voice there was certainly a mother's sorrow! but what struck me
most was the modulation of the voice, as if set to some local music. I
never heard before the peasants lament their dead, but I am quite
sure they all do it in more or less the same way, as if according to
certain rules.
Pages:
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261