When the great die, the town is steeped in mourning and flags are hung up to inform the population of the fact. Had I been great and had I possessed the gift of eloquence, I would have raised my voice and made the whole world mourn for my Lidotchka, but I am only an insignificant little man, and can merely cry for her as a cow cries for its lost calf. Even a cow is more effective in her grief, for her cries may be heard by someone in the night, while I have to stifle my sobs for fear that others may hear and object.
How contemptible I am! nothing but a “cell.”
I remember a certain day—a day to which I could erect a bronze memorial for the edification of posterity. It was a week after Lidotchka’s death, and I, like a conscientious worker, returned to the confounded office. The other fellows are kindhearted enough; they remarked upon the fact that my hair had turned grey, and expressed their sympathy in the usual polite way of “Lost a little daughter? Dear, dear, what a pity it is!”
It was a pity, but what did it matter? Wasn’t I working and adding up figures? When the band of crêpe caught the eye of the sympathetic, I was greeted with, “Have you lost someone at the war?”
“No, not at the war. I have lost my little daughter Lidia.”
“Oh!”
I could see they were disappointed.
Zvoliansky, the Pole, remarked casually—with every degree of politeness and propriety, of course, that no one ought to wear mourning at a time like this, not even for relatives killed at the front. One must consider the public nerves. It stands to reason that when a man dresses himself up in a smart tie and patent shoes he doesn’t want to meet the spectacle of a gloomy, grey-haired old man in mourning. It would spoil his pleasure. Zvoliansky did not dare to say as much, but his remarks implied it plainly. If people had no right to wear mourning for those killed at the front—the only dead that matter now—what right had I to wear it for a six-year-old little girl who died a natural death? Weren’t there enough six-year-old little girls in the world?
I was led to understand, though it was gently done, that I had acted inconsiderately in flaunting my grief before the eyes of others. It was as though I had got drunk in the midst of the general sobriety. A casual acquaintance met in the street made me realise this to the full with his exclamation of “A little girl? Oh!”
But do I argue? I have submitted to public opinion and put my band of crêpe in my pocket. I must be careful of other people’s feelings. As a patriot I have no right to hurt anyone. A patriot or a worm, I wonder?
But I hold my tongue.