Listen to the wheels s, and on and on. That's aving it, on ntimental, I suppose. Wheels don't say any thing. Wheels can't speak. But I hear them.
And I thought I heard him. He's always with me, he and all his beauty and his cruelty. But he mustn't {be any more. I mustn't think of him. That's it, don't think of him. Yes. Don't breathe, either. Don't hear. Don't see. Stop the blood in your veins.
I can't go on like this. I can't. I can't. I cannot stand this frantic misery. If I knew it would be over in a day or a year or two months, I could endure Even if it grew duller sometimes and wilder sometimes, it could be borne. But it is always the same and there is no end, Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. How am I to drag through them like this?
But what else is there for me? "Go out ana see your friends and have a good time," they say. "Don't sit alone and dramatize yourself." io the places where he and I have been? For he's gone, and it's ended.
It's ended; it's ended. And when it ends, only those places where you have known sorrow are kindly to you. If you revisit the scenes of your happiness, your heart must burst of its agony.
And that's sentimental, I suppose. It's sentimental to know that (you cannot bear to see the places where once all was well with you, that you cannot.bear reminders of a dead loveliness.
"Remembered in Emotion"
Sorrow is tranquillity remembered in emotion. It—oh, I think that's quite good. "Remembered in emotion"—that's a really nice reversal. I wish I could say it to him.
But I won't say anything to him, ever again, ever, ever again. He's gone, and its over, and I dare not think of the dead days. All my thoughts must be slow and brown, and I must—
Oh, no, no, no! Oh, the driver shouldn't go through this street! This was our street, this the place of our love and our laughter. I can't do this, I can't, I can't.
I will crouch down here, and hold my hands tight, tight over my eyes, so that I cannot look. I must keep my poor heart still, and I must be like the little, mean, dry-souled people who are proud not to remember.
But oh, I see it, even though my eyes are blinded. Though I had no dyes, my heart would tell me this street, out of all streets. I know it as I know my hands, as I know his face. Oh, why can't I be let to die as we pass through We must be at the florist's shop on the corner now. Thats where he used to stop to buy me primroses, little yellow primroses massed tight together with a circle of their silverbacked leaves about them, clean and cool and gentle.
He always said that orchids and cornelias were none of my affair. So when there was no spring and no primroses, he would give me lilies-of-the-valley and little, gay rosebuds end mignonette and bright blue cornflowers.
He said he couldn't stand the thought of me without flowers—it would be all wrong; I cannot bear flowers near me, now. And the little grey florist was so interested and so glad—and there was the day he called me "madam!" Ah. I can't, I can't.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.