The Lesson

The Next Day

He complained of a cough. The cough was not a bad one. To listen to him cough, well — it didn’t distress one, as the hearing of some coughs do. Yet, as the days passed, the cough grew worse. Oddly enough, the joy that he felt seemed to intensify, so that the cough was accompanied by a nature gladder and gladder.

And so things continued. Their life was a simple one. He had been a great chess player. They had both been famous masters, he and she, and both had played in major tournaments in their time. He had been a champion for a period of years. They were not forgotten, not even then, so long after, and would occasionally be visited by old friends, or young people, curious about their accomplishments. As well, they still took students, although at present there were none. Yet, on the street by their door, hung a little sign. Chess lessons by appointment. Inquire within.

Loring finally went for the doctor when three weeks had passed. There was a red figure of a woodsman in the study. She had been staring at it for at least an hour, trying to decide if she should go. The window was open, and a gust blew such that the figure tipped. This was not uncommon, and, in fact, they had often joked about the woodsman’s sure-footed nature. Yet this time, she took it for a sign, and went immediately for the doctor.

He came quickly, being that the Wesleys were somewhat important in the town, or perhaps it was simply his way, to come quickly when called. Perhaps he was an old family friend. Who can say? In any case, there he was, and he examined Ezra, and found that he was very ill indeed. The manner of his illness was a subtle one. He had perhaps been ill for years. Would it have been good to know of the illness? Loring asked. Could it have been averted? No, no. The illness is incurable. It is best not to know. What has happened so far, in some sense, is for the best. Loring was crying, and Ezra was holding the quilt that was over his knees. The woodsman remained toppled, although that, in and of itself, was meaningless.

This continued through the next days: Loring would cry. Ezra would sit quietly, or console her. In truth, the joy that had grasped him at first had simply grown and grown. He felt very keenly the pleasure of life, and told her that she must under no circumstance cry. He kissed her and they went again on walks by the canal. The cough faded and was gone. A beautiful weather descended on the town. Such a fall…those who lived through it remember it always. They were as they had been when they had met, this old couple, feeling on the verge of discovery. Each represented to the other all that was new and unknown about life, all that had been promised.

On the thirtieth day, Loring woke and Ezra did not. His eyes were shut, and his hands were at his side. He had gone to sleep with his clothes on, like some pharaoh. Somehow, Loring had not noticed.

Although it may seem to those of you who have only heard of such things that it would be strange to sit for a long while in a room with a dead person, it is quite common, I must tell you. If the person is dead, then there is no particular reason to call anyone. And besides, one feels in some way that nothing matters at all, and that any action is as good as any other. Then, to simply sit and look again and again upon the countenance of the one who died, it is what passes. And in this way it is not really an uninterrupted staring. It is a series of glances, each one as full of surprise as when one hears a noise and turns. One is expecting something, and can’t say what — yet when one sees it, one knows what one knew, what one knew and couldn’t say. It is this way with death. It is in our nature to feel the extent of it when we face it, and to have it fall away the moment we turn.

And so she went on there in the bedroom, looking at her husband, and looking away, looking at him and looking away, and wondering what was left, and why.