February 23d.
Who originated that most exquisite of inquisitions, the condolence
system?
A solid blow has in itself the elements of its rebound; it arouses the
antagonism of the life on which it falls; its relief is the relief of a
combat.
But a hundred little needles pricking at us,--what is to be done with
them? The hands hang down, the knees are feeble. We cannot so much as
gasp, because they _are_ little needles.
I know that there are those who like these calls; but why, in the name
of all sweet pity, must we endure them without respect of persons, as we
would endure a wedding reception or make a party-call?
Perhaps I write excitedly and hardly. I feel excited and hard.
I am sure I do not mean to be ungrateful for real sorrowful sympathy,
however imperfectly it may be shown, or that near friends (if one has
them), cannot give, in such a time as this, actual strength, even if
they fail of comfort, by look and tone and love. But it is not near
friends who are apt to wound, nor real sympathy which sharpens the worst
of the needles. It is the fact that all your chance acquaintances feel
called upon to bring their curious eyes and jarring words right into the
silence of your first astonishment; taking you in a round of morning
calls with kid gloves and parasol, and the liberty to turn your heart
about and cut into it at pleasure. You may quiver at every touch, but
there is no escape, because it is “the thing.”
For instance: Meta Tripp came in this afternoon,--I have refused myself
to everybody but Mrs. Bland, before, but Meta caught me in the parlor,
and there was no escape. She had come, it was plain enough, because she
must, and she had come early, because, she too having lost a brother in
the war, she was expected to be very sorry for me. Very likely she was,
and very likely she did the best she knew how, but she was--not as
uncomfortable as I, but as uncomfortable as she could be, and was
evidently glad when it was over. She observed, as she went out, that I
shouldn’t feel so sad by and by. She felt very sad at first when Jack
died, but everybody got over that after a time. The girls were going to
sew for the Fair next week at Mr. Quirk’s, and she hoped I would exert
myself and come.