Mary Olivier: A Life · Book IV · Chapter XXIII · Chapter 23 12

The pain hung on to the left side of her head, clawing. When she left off reading she could feel it beat like a hammer, driving in a warm nail.

Aunt Lavvy sat on the parrot chair, with her feet on the fender. Her fingers had left off embroidering brown birds on drab linen.

In the dying light of the room things showed fuzzy, headachy outlines. It made you feel sick to look at them.

Mamma had left her alone with Aunt Lavvy.

“I suppose you think that nobody was ever so unhappy as you are,” Aunt Lavvy said.

“I hope nobody is. I hope nobody ever will be.”

“Should you say I was unhappy?”

“You don’t look it. I hope you’re not.”

“Thirty-three years ago I was miserable, because I couldn’t have my own way. I couldn’t marry the man I cared for.”

“Oh⁠—that. Why didn’t you?”

“My mother and your father and your Uncle Victor wouldn’t let me.”

“I suppose he was a Unitarian?”

“Yes. He was a Unitarian. But whatever he’d been I couldn’t have married him. I couldn’t do anything I liked. I couldn’t go where I liked or stay where I liked. I wanted to be a teacher, but I had to give it up.”

“Why?”

“Because your Uncle Victor and I had to look after your Aunt Charlotte.”

“You could have got somebody else to look after Aunt Charlotte. Somebody else has to look after her now.”

“Your Grandmamma made us promise never to send her away as long as it was possible to keep her. That’s why your Uncle Victor never married.”

“And all the time Aunt Charlotte would have been better and happier with Dr. Draper. Aunt Lavvy⁠—it’s too horrible.”

“It wasn’t as bad as you think. Your Uncle Victor couldn’t have married in any case.”

“Didn’t he love anybody?”

“Yes, Mary; he loved your mother.”

“I see. And she didn’t love him.”

“He wouldn’t have married her if she had loved him. He was afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Afraid of going like your Aunt Charlotte. Afraid of what he might hand on to his children.”

“Papa wasn’t afraid. He grabbed. It was poor little Victor and you who got nothing.”

“Victor has got a great deal.”

“And you⁠—you?”

“I’ve got all I want. I’ve got all there is. When everything’s taken away, then God’s there.”

“If he’s there, he’s there anyhow.”

“Until everything’s taken away there isn’t room to see that he’s there.”

When Catty came in with the lamp Aunt Lavvy went out quickly.

Mary got up and stretched herself. The pain had left off hammering. She could think.

Aunt Lavvy⁠—to live like that for thirty-three years and to be happy at the end. She wondered what happiness there could be in that dull surrender and acquiescence, that cold, meek love of God.

“Kikeriküh! sie glaubten

Es wäre Hahnen geschrei.”