So, after all, he is here: not as a comfort but as a distraction. And out of habit: I suppose his lines used to visit Stephen's mind quite frequently, and Stephen's his. Now in either case. they will be homesick forever.
XXVIII
The service over, all adjourn to Loudoun Road for drinks in the garden. The sun is hard-hitting, the sky is a solid blue slate. General chatter; the most frequent openings are "The end of an era" and "What a perfect day." The whole thing looks more like a garden party than anything. Perhaps this is the way the English keep their real sentiments in check, though some faces betray confusion. Lady R. says hello and makes some remark to the effect that at all funerals one thinks inevitably of one's o^, didn't I think? I say no and, when she professes disbelief, explain to her that in our line of work one learns to narrow the focus by writing elegies. That, I add, rubs off on one's attitudes in reality. "I meant that one implicitly wishes to last as long as the person who's just died," maneuvers Lady R. I buy the implication and move toward the exit. As I step outside, I run into a just-arriving couple. The man is about my age and looks vaguely familiar (somebody in publishing). We greet each other hesitantly and he says, "The end of an era." No, I want to say to him, not the end of an era. Of a life. Which was longer and better than either yours or mine. Instead I just muster a broad, cheerful, Stephen-like grin and say, "I don't think so," and walk away.
August 10, 1995