“Come, it’s time …”
It was José Dias reminding me to shut the coffin. We shut it, and I took hold of one of the handles; there was a final burst of weeping. I give you my word that, when I got to the door, and saw the bright sunlight, people and carriages everywhere, heads uncovered, I had one of those impulses of mine which I never carry out: to throw the coffin, body and all, into the street. In the carriage I told José Dias to be quiet. In the cemetery I had to repeat the same ceremony as at the house, undo the straps, and help bear the coffin to the grave. You can imagine what an effort this was. Once the body was down in the grave, they brought the lime and the shovel; you know all about it, you’ll have been to more than one funeral, but what neither you, nor any of your friends, nor any other person can know, reader, is the crisis that overcame me when I saw everyone’s eyes on me, their feet still, ears attentive, and after some moments of total silence, a vague murmur, some enquiring voices, gestures, and someone, José Dias, saying into my ear:
“Go on, speak.”
It was the speech. They wanted the speech. They had a right to the advertized speech. Mechanically, I put my hand in my pocket, took out the paper and read it stumblingly, not all of it, not in order and not clearly; my voice seemed to be going back into my mouth instead of coming out of it, and my hands were trembling. Nor was it only the new emotion that affected me in this way, it was the text itself, the memories of my friend, my affection for him, my praise of the man and his merits; all these things I was obliged to say and said badly. At the same time, fearing that they might suspect the truth, I was struggling to hide it. I think that few heard me, but the general reaction was of understanding and approval. The hands that stretched out to shake mine expressed fellow feeling; some said: “Very fine! well said! magnificent!” José Dias thought that my eloquence had been in keeping with the emotion of the occasion. A man, who seemed to be a journalist, asked my permission to take the manuscript and publish it. Only my great inner turmoil can explain my refusing such a simple request.