My first thought, as I sat beside my
father's bedside, was that I was a helpless child, knowing nothing,
understanding nothing; I can not say that my heart felt physical pain,
but I sometimes bent over and wrung my hands as one who wakens from a
long sleep.
During the first months of my life in the country I had no thought of
either the past or the future. It did not seem to be I who had lived up
to that time; what I felt was not despair, and in no way resembled the
terrible grief I had experienced in the past; there was a sort of languor
in every action, a sense of fatigue with all of life, a poignant
bitterness that was eating out my heart. I held a book in my hand all day
long but I did not read, I did not even know what I dreamed about. I had
no thoughts; within, all was silence; I had received such a violent blow,
and yet one that was so prolonged in its effect, that I remained a purely
passive being and there seemed to be no reaction.
My servant, Larive by name, had been much attached to my father; he was,
after my father himself, probably the best man I have ever known. He was
the same height and wore the clothes my father had left him, having no
livery.
He was about the same age, that is, his hair was turning gray, and during
the twenty years he had lived with my father, he had learned some of his
ways. While I was pacing up and down the room after dinner, I heard him
doing the same in the hall; although the door was open, he did not enter
and not a word was spoken; but from time to time we would look at each
other and weep.
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