The Lesson

A Vague Feeling

On that clear and fortunate morning, Ezra Wesley woke with the special gladness of a person who will die within the month. He did not know that he had this gladness, for, of course, the one who has it never knows its source. One mustn’t know — otherwise, one most certainly would not be glad! However that may be, glad he was. His wife, Loring, was watching him. She said nothing. Could she tell how glad he was? She was a very observant person.

They had lived together, after all, for forty-five years, and she knew his habits. Could she tell that this was the special happiness of one who will soon be departing? She could not.

But as I said, it was morning, and the sun had risen. So, soon they were walking out by the canal that ran beside their home, walking down into the near district of the town where a fine place was and breakfast might be found. They sat there, this old woman, this old man, and ate something, and had this conversation:

— There is a little box by the window of the room upstairs, the room we never use.

— I know the box you mean. It is the box that I once tried to open and you said,

— I said, do not open that box until I have been dead three months.

— You did, she said. You said that.

— Well, now I am thinking, said he. I am thinking that three months was not the right measure. I believe one year to the day.

— I will keep that in mind, she said. If you die. Of course, if I die first, you and your little box won’t do anyone much good.

— That much is true, Loring. I suppose that much is true.