In Africa, as we fought against Rommel’s tank corps, we had hopes of one kind and another. Those hopes have vanished one by one ... some of us are at the bottom rung. If I get home I will not attend church with you, or go with anyone: my brain won’t stomach it: if I fail to grasp theological preachment it is due to man’s insensate cruelty and nothing I can see ahead cancels those experiences. My Jesus has been a trigger Jesus. My chapter and verse have been pain and explosives. I am an old guy from Ithaca: "giver of pain." Orville realized that his aunt was sobbing but he could not put his hand on hers. She must endure alone. Alone. Here I am alone, with no brother or neighbor, or friend or society but myself: isn’t that the gist of the first part of Rousseau’s _Reveries_! My personal discoveries would startle you because they are un-French, un-American. They are discoveries that must have been made a hundred or five hundred thousand years ago: survival! Yesterday, Jeannette and I fished in the Nonette, each of us catching one. We fished by the old castle--a cold, cold day. I remember your portfolio of watercolors of the ruin--charming scenes. I never could do as well. Are you still sketching, Mom? There are so many pleasant places around Ithaca. The funeral service was almost over. Are you still dating Chris Wilson? He is a nice guy. How’s his medical practice doing? Improving? Is he getting rich? I guess things are about as usual in Ithaca--minus the fellows who are off to war. I suppose you attend plays at Willard Straight. Have you seen some good ones? I hope so. And your French classes--how is teaching these days? Jean is okay--Aunt and Uncle okay, though very depressed. Lena’s death will take a hell of a lot out of them. Keep well ... Orville felt his aunt’s hand on his own; confused he glanced around. Her face expressed a kind of final somberness. The priest’s face was professionally blank. Orville did not want to see Victor’s face, or Jeannette’s. In the cemetery he was impressed once more by life’s clever deceptions: he had never really known Lena-the-Maquise; he did not know Therèse or Victor, he did not know Jeannette: in a nearby plot lay someone else he had never known--Robert St. Denis. Orville’s thoughts reached out to what was taking place. They were lowering Lena’s coffin--ropes going down: a couple of grave men were watching the pair who were doing the job; one of the watchers lit a cigarette as the ropes jerked and the coffin hesitated. "Walk back with me," Jeannette said. "Yes," he said. "Let’s go ... now ... take my arm." "Yes." They walked arm in arm, the cemetery road straight, narrow, an uncut weed strip down the middle, its double row of pines beaded with rain, needles sagging, a sparrow chattering in a small tree. She wanted to restore their relationship: wanted to help him: what was his mood? "Are you warm?" she asked.