爱华网Home Burial
BYROBERTFROSTHe saw her fromthe bottom of the stairsBefore she sawhim. She was starting down,Looking back overher shoulder at some fear.She took adoubtful step and then undid itTo raise herselfand look again. He spokeAdvancing towardher: ‘What is it you seeFrom up therealways—for I want to know.’She turned andsank upon her skirts at that,And her facechanged from terrified to dull.He said to gaintime: ‘What is it you see,’Mounting untilshe cowered un der him.‘I will find outnow—you must tell me, dear.’She, in herplace, refused him any helpWith the leaststiffening of her neck and silence.She let him look,sure that he wouldn’t see,Blind creature;and awhile he didn’t see.But at last hemurmured, ‘Oh,’ and again, ‘Oh.’‘What isit—what?’ she said.
‘Just that I see.’
‘You don’t,’ shechallenged. ‘Tell me what it is.’
‘The wonder is Ididn’t see at once.I never noticedit from here before.I must be wontedto it—that’s the reason.The littlegraveyard where my people are!So small thewindow frames the whole of it.Not so muchlarger than a bedroom, is it?There are threestones of slate and one of marble,Broad-shoulderedlittle slabs there in the sunlightOn the sidehill.We haven’t to mindthose.But I understand:it is not the stones,But the child’smound—’
‘Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t,’ she cried.
She withdrewshrinking from beneath his armThat rested onthe banister, and slid downstairs;And turned on himwith such a daunting look,He said twiceover before he knew himself:‘Can’t a manspeak of his own child he’s lost?’
‘Not you! Oh,where’s my hat? Oh, I don’t need it!I must get out ofhere. I must get air.I don’t knowrightly whether any man can.’
‘Amy! Don’t go tosomeone else this time.Listen to me. Iwon’t come down the stairs.’He sat and fixedhis chin between his fists.‘There’ssomething I should like to ask you, dear.’
‘You don’t knowhow to ask it.’
‘Help me, then.’
Her fingers movedthe latch for all reply.
‘My words arenearly always an offense.I don’t know howto speak of anythingSo as to pleaseyou. But I might be taughtI should suppose.I can’t say I see how.A man must partlygive up being a manWith women-folk.We could have some arrangementBy which I’d bindmyself to keep hands offAnything specialyou’re a-mind to name.Though I don’tlike such things ’twixt those that love.Two that don’tlove can’t live together without them.But two that docan’t live together with them.’She moved thelatch a little. ‘Don’t—don’t go.Don’t carry it tosomeone else this time.Tell me about itif it’s something human.Let me into yourgrief. I’m not so muchUnlike otherfolks as your standing thereApart would makeme out. Give me my chance.I do think,though, you overdo it a little.What was itbrought you up to think it the thingTo take yourmother-loss of a first childSoinconsolably—in the face of love.You’d think hismemory might be satisfied—’
‘There you gosneering now!’
‘I’m not, I’m not!You make meangry. I’ll come down to you.God, what awoman! And it’s come to this,A man can’t speakof his own child that’s dead.’
‘You can’tbecause you don't know how to speak.If you had anyfeelings, you that dugWith your ownhand—how could you?—his little grave;I saw you fromthat very window there,Making the gravelleap and leap in air,Leap up, likethat, like that, and land so lightlyAnd roll backdown the mound beside the hole.I thought, Who isthat man? I didn’t know you.And I crept downthe stairs and up the stairsTo look again,and still your spade kept lifting.Then you came in.I heard your rumbling voiceOut in thekitchen, and I don’t know why,But I went nearto see with my own eyes.You could sitthere with the stains on your shoesOf the freshearth from your own baby’s graveAnd talk aboutyour everyday concerns.You had stood thespade up against the wallOutside there inthe entry, for I saw it.’
‘I shall laughthe worst laugh I ever laughed.I’m cursed. God,if I don’t believe I’m cursed.’
‘I can repeat thevery words you were saying:“Three foggymornings and one rainy dayWill rot the bestbirch fence a man can build.”Think of it, talklike that at such a time!What had how longit takes a birch to rotTo do with whatwas in the darkened parlor?Youcouldn’tcare!The nearest friends can goWith anyone todeath, comes so far shortThey might aswell not try to go at all.No, from the timewhen one is sick to death,One is alone, andhe dies more alone.Friends makepretense of following to the grave,But before one isin it, their minds are turnedAnd making thebest of their way back to lifeAnd livingpeople, and things they understand.But the world’sevil. I won’t have grief soIf I can changeit. Oh, I won’t, I won’t!’
‘There, you havesaid it all and you feel better.You won’t go now.You’re crying. Close the door.The heart’s goneout of it: why keep it up.Amy! There’ssomeone coming down the road!’
‘You—oh,you think the talk is all. I must go—Somewhere out ofthis house. How can I make you—’
‘If—you—do!’ Shewas opening the door wider.‘Where do youmean to go? First tell me that.I’ll follow andbring you back by force. Iwill!—’
