At the furthest end, the men and women were talking to each
other in a drawling, half-sleepy way. Going along, among the rowan
trees, the procession came now and then into the glare of the sun, and
then the kerchiefs flashed into flames of blue, and red, and yellow,
which but for the coffin and the incense of juniper berries, made the
procession rather look like a wedding than a funeral. Death does not
seem to make much impression upon the rustic mind; perhaps they regard
it in the light of an everlasting holiday. As we stood by the open
grave, I noticed their faces following the ceremony with concentrated
attention and curiosity; but I saw no trace of thoughtfulness or
reflection at the inexorable end, after which begins the great,
terrible Unknown.
I looked at Aniela as she stooped for a handful of soil to throw upon
the lowered coffin. She was paler than usual, and with the sun shining
upon her I could read the transparent features as an open book. I was
certain she was thinking of her own death. To me it seemed simply
monstrous, a horrible improbability, that this face so full of
expression, so full of life and charming individuality, should at some
time be stony white and remain in eternal darkness.
And as if a sudden frost had nipped all my thoughts, I grew suddenly
conscious that the first ceremony I assisted at with Aniela was a
funeral.
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